


Healing

by laveIIans



Series: Only Duty Endures [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Bad Dirty Talk, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Bad Puns, Canon-Typical Violence, Culture Shock, Dirty Talk, Dreamers (Dragon Age), Drunken Confessions, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Kissing, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Freeform, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Happy Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies Awkwardness, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, Magic - Freeform, Mutual Pining, Non-Canon Relationship, Original Character(s), Qun, Qunari Culture and Customs, Qunari Fetish, Qunari Physiology, Qunlat, Sexual Content, Shameless Ogling, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn, Smut, Sten - Freeform, Sten Is Sten, What-If, but sten is torn between iona and the qun, there may be OOC moments at times, they have a surprisingly happy and strong relationship together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-08-27 05:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16696507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laveIIans/pseuds/laveIIans
Summary: When Iona Surana left Kinloch Hold for the first time in years, she thought her life had only just begun. Then the Blight happened, and everything went to hell.Along the way, she assembled a ragtag bunch of misfits from all walks of life, bound together by one common goal – to save the world, and not die trying. That was the plan, anyway.Plans seldom worked that way.However, it was the young mage’s connection with a sardonic Qunari warrior that proved to be the most surprising – and healing – bond of them all, crossing boundaries of race, religion.... and potential war.After a rocky beginning, the two grew closer together, defying what fate and their different backgrounds might have dictated and starting a relationship that would weather all and considerable odds.That was theotherplan.





	1. Chapter 1

He was incredibly tall. That was her first thought seeing him. Easily at least a foot taller than her, he looked out of his cage with a grim, defeated glance at his surroundings before returning to his murmurings in a language she did not understand.

“ _Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun._ ” His eyes were downcast, and he paid them no mind as they all hesitantly approached him.

The man – or beast, or _whatever_ he was – was clearly a powerful threat to the villagers. He could have torn them apart with his bare hands, by the look of things, and his glowering and muttering did little to win him over to anybody’s cause.

Yet there was something in his expression that unsettled Iona more than his alien nature or strength ever could; a deep despair and loathing that left her feeling like she had been weeping for days. It was about all she could bear to walk up to the cage door and look him in the eyes, even if only barely.

“He’s a Qunari, I think,” Alistair said, giving the prisoner a doubtful glance. “I’ve only heard stories about them. Do you think he can understand us?” The prisoner grunted and gave him a disdainful look. “Right. Point taken. I’m going to stand a little further away now, just in case.”

Morrigan sighed. “Instead of cowering in the distance like a kicked puppy, we might get better use from the situation if we actually _talk_ to him. He might have useful information about Lothering, or the Blight, or _anything_ that means I don’t have to listen to your childishness. Then again, seeing the way you slobber and whine to yourself while stinking like a dead animal, I’m not convinced you actually _aren’t_ part mabari.”

“You really know how to make your words hurt, don’t you? Did Flemeth teach you that? How to become a heartless old shrew?”

“Be quiet, both of you,” Iona hissed. The prisoner was watching them with aloof disinterest, and she could only imagine the mocking thoughts going through his head. They probably deserved them, which didn’t help much. 

She cleared her throat. “Who are you?” she asked, regretting it almost immediately. It was such a stupid question.

“I am a Sten of the Beresaad,” the prisoner replied. Her companions gave her shared looks of bewilderment when she turned back to them. “A warrior, in other words,” he added; Iona could practically hear the disdain dripping from his voice.

“Why did the people of Lothering cage you up here in the first place?” she asked him.

“Why _wouldn’t_ they, you mean?” Alistair whispered. “Have you _seen_ the size of – ” Morrigan elbowed him in the ribs and he yelped, turning away in a sulk.

“The Revered Mother said he killed an entire family,” Leliana said sadly. “Even the little children.”

“It is just as she says,” the Qunari said in a flat tone. “I suggest you leave me alone to my fate.” Iona felt her stomach turn.

“We could use the help, could we not?” Morrigan suggested. “It would be foolish to turn away any assistance in a Blight. He is clearly strong and proud, and we would do well to have him at our side rather than bait for those creatures.” Iona did not miss her barely suppressed shudder.

“It would be the most merciful thing to do,” Leliana agreed. “He could atone for his sins under the Maker’s eyes in aid of the righteous and just.”

“You make us sound like heroes,” Alistair sniggered. “Do ‘the righteous and just’ at least get a day off? Maybe a lie in every Saturday, and extra ale when we want it?”

“Oh, hush you,” Iona said, wagging her finger in his direction before turning back to the prisoner. “Now, uh… Sten, was it? I am a Grey Warden, along with Alistair here, and we would be happy to free and take you with us, if you agreed. If you just wait here, we’ll go to the Chantry and get this all sorted for you, I promise.”

He raised an eyebrow at her and Iona quailed. “I am incapable of doing anything _but_ waiting.” She wanted to hide in a deep ditch and die there; the Qunari made her so nervous that she was incapable of forming a sensible sentence.   _Perhaps freeing him isn’t such a great idea after all_ , she thought to herself, avoiding eye contact.

“Let’s not take too long, then,” Alistair beamed. The prisoner only groaned in response.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Revered Mother had been reluctant to let Sten leave but agreed after Leliana eloquently persuaded her. Iona had suggested the party all accept a blessing from her as well to help take the sting out of the situation, which had made the old woman pleased; Morrigan had muttered something but offered no resistance when the elf gave her a disapproving glare.

Once Sten was freed from his cage, he blinked and was very quiet for a moment. Then he nodded. “And so it must be,” he murmured.

“You’ll fit right in,” Alistair teased. “Oh, I’ve got a bad joke! A templar, apostate, Circle mage, bard and Qunari walk into a bar, and the templar says – ”

“Absolutely nothing of any value to anyone,” Morrigan cut across him, rolling her eyes.

“They bicker often,” Iona explained in a whisper to Sten, who nodded as the pair walked further in front of them, arguing dramatically.  Leliana was humming an Orlesian tune to herself, stopping every so often to admire patches of wildflowers growing around them.

With a start, Iona realised that she and Sten were more or less alone together, and she blushed. Their new party member must think very little of her, she thought, remembering how she had stumbled over her words earlier like a drunken boor.

“What did you say their names were?” he asked her suddenly, almost making her jump.

“Those two are Alistair and Morrigan,” she said, pointing them out. “Alistair’s the templar, Morrigan’s the apostate. The woman over there – ” she pointed again “ – is Leliana, the bard. And former Chantry sister, apparently.” She chuckled. “And I’m the Circle mage. Iona,” she added quickly, realising she hadn’t introduced herself. “Iona Surana.”

“Circle… mage?” Sten seemed bewildered, and she couldn’t help but smile a little.

“It means I was trained by the Circle,” she explained. “They’re governed by the Chantry, so templars watch over us for signs of any corruption. All it really means is I was raised in a Circle tower and learnt how to control my magic there, as opposed to unsanctioned practices like… hmm, apostasy.”

“Like Morrigan?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“And Alistair is a templar?”

“Yes. I mean, I don’t think he ever formally took the vows to become one, but he has templar training at least.”

“So he is your enemy?”

Iona nearly choked. “No, he’s not my enemy,” she laughed. “Nobody here is my enemy, I assure you.”

“But if his job is to look after mages, does that mean he would kill you if you were corrupted?” Sten asked insistently.

She coughed. “Why don’t we change the subject, Sten? I don’t really want to think about anyone killing me on a nice, sunny day.”

“Does that mean you would think about it if it rained?”

Iona raised an eyebrow, amused. “Are you… telling a _joke_ , Sten?”

“Never,” the Qunari said, although she imagined for a moment she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

“But no, I would not think about it if it rained.” She paused for thought. “Maybe on a stormy day though, if I didn’t have anything to take my mind off thoughts of existential dread. Herbal tea helps a little, I’ve heard. Or meditation. Hmm… _maybe_ not thinking of people as enemies might do the trick.” Iona chuckled to herself, shaking her head.

He snorted. “Yet you are surrounded by enemies, are you not? Your focus and purpose are to eradicate the Blight from your land. Is that not what a Grey Warden does? You kill.”

“I… suppose.” She looked at him for a long moment. “Are all Qunari as serious as you? Or is that only the berry… the bear… the warrior people?”

“Killing is a serious business,” Sten said, looking perplexed. “To make light of it would be – ”

“No, I only meant – ”

“ _Parshaara_ ,” he sighed. “Perhaps I should have stayed in Par Vollen. Everything would make more sense.”

“But _you_ wouldn’t,” Iona teased. “At least, not to the rest of us.”

“I make perfect sense. I am a Sten of the Beresaad, not a _tamassran_.”

“You’ve lost me there, Sten. A tam-what?”

He groaned. “A priestess who has to deal with all of your questions, _maraas imekari_.”

“I feel like that was an insult from your tone, so I choose to feel offended by it.” She crossed her arms in an exaggerated display.

“Your glibness does you no credit, Iona Surana.”

“Oh? I thought here we were getting along like a house on fire.”

“That would be extremely dangerous for everyone involved.”

“No, no, it’s – ” Iona sighed. “It’s an _idiom_ , a… look, it’s not literal, okay? It’s just a thing people say.”

“A waste of speech. You add confusion where none is needed.”

“Well, _you’re_ the – ”

“Look out!” Alistair called out from further ahead, drawing their attention away from the brewing argument.

A group of villagers stood before them, unarmoured and bearing only the flimsiest of weapons; if they were an army out to fight them, they would not stand a single chance.

“We have no quarrel with you directly,” the leader said, “but there’s a bounty on Grey Wardens. That money could feed a lot of empty bellies.” He gestured to the men surrounding him. “ _Attack!_ ”

Iona had purchased Sten a greatsword, though she had not had enough coin to buy him a set of armour before they had made their way out of Lothering, so the Qunari was forced to wear the same tattered rags they had found him caged in.

Not that he even _needed_ armour. Sten cut through the men surrounding him like a knife sinking through a cheese wedge, moving with surprising grace for a man of his size and expertly knocking them to the floor as if it they were little more than buzzing flies.

Iona cast healing spells his way while Morrigan conjured flames that made the villagers writhe and scream, desperately beating them off with their hands, but Sten seemed to scarcely notice. By the time the fight was over – if you could even call it one – he was barely even winded; the weight of the sword was nowhere near an issue, it seemed, even though Alistair had barely been able to lift it.

Not for the first time, she noticed how different they were. _He is truly an alien_ , she mused, watching Sten wipe the sweat from his brow and look back at her, frowning.

 “You healed me,” he murmured, looking deeply confused.

Iona shrugged. “Would you have preferred I didn’t? You didn’t seem like you really needed help, but I thought since you were unarmoured, you’d need it the most.”

“I did not realise magic could do such a thing,” Sten said quietly. “I thought it was only a weapon.”

“ _Only_ a _weapon_?” Morrigan chuckled. “I wonder what they do with mages under your Qun, then.”

“They cut out their tongues and stitch their lips together to stop them casting spells,” he told her in a flat tone. “They only ever use magic in battles, only to hurt, never to heal. And they are chained to an _arvaarad_ who will kill them if they feel the need.”

“Oh.” The witch fell silent, looking rather shocked, and there was an ugly pause before anyone dared to speak.

“You make the templars sound like teddy bears,” Iona laughed, trying to break the tension.

“Oh, we _are_ teddy bears,” Alistair joined in. “Just teddy bears with a not entirely spotless reputation, is all.”

“And stylish uniforms,” Leliana chuckled.

“I know, right? I think they only gave those to us so that we wouldn’t feel naked next to the mages.”

Sten grunted but did not reply. Iona noticed he seemed deeply troubled, even when the others had moved on, so she gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder.

Or _tried_ to. She could not reach high enough, but the Qunari seemed to understand what she meant, because his expression changed. It was probably the closest thing to a smile that she would get out of him.

“I’m not so bad, am I?” Iona said, smiling. “I won’t hurt you, don’t worry. I prefer to heal anyway.”

“You have… remarkable control for one without an _arvaarad_ ,” Sten said hesitantly.

“Only because I’ve trained to. If I went into battle without that beforehand, I might need one,” she teased.

“A _saarebas_ who needs no _arvaarad_.” Sten paused. “I shall have to think about this.”

“It’s new, isn’t it?” she said quietly. He looked down at her, raising an eyebrow. “And maybe it’s a little scary, but that’s okay. I haven’t been outside the Circle since I was four. All of _this_ – ” she waved her arms around, indicating their surroundings, “ – is new to me too. Fresh air, sunlight, the wind on my face. Being _outside_.” Iona paused. “It’s kind of frightening, actually. I’m still not used to it yet.”

“Then you are very brave, Iona Surana.”

She tried not to blush, turning away to hide her smile. “Please, Sten, call me Iona. We’re travelling together, aren’t we? There’s no need to stand on ceremony with me.”

“But are you not the leader? I wanted to show you respect.”

Iona felt oddly touched. “I… thank you, Sten.” She smiled. “Although I wouldn’t say I’m a _leader_ exactly. We’re all friends here. _Equals_.”

“But you are the leader,” Sten insisted.

She laughed. “If you say so, Sten.”

“I say so because it is true.”

“Then why not Alistair? He’s another Grey Warden. Technically he’s also higher ranking than I am.”

“Because you give the orders and he follows them,” Sten told her. “It is not the other way around. You are the leader.”

She had never thought of herself that way before. It… made sense, she admitted, but still felt a little strange.

“And you would follow my orders then?”

“Of course.”

“And so if I asked you to explain about the Qun and your people to me, you would do it?” Iona shrugged. “I’m not sure if it’s a huge secret with you lot. Will they imprison you if you tried?”

“No,” Sten grunted. “I am no priest, but I would try.”

“Thank you,” she smiled. “I am pleased you would trust me with this.” He did not reply, but the vague hint of a half-smile reappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun.** \- Struggle is an illusion. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle against. Victory is in the Qun. [extract from the Qun for the Qunari Prayers for the Dead]
> 
>   **Parshaara** \- enough!
> 
>  
> 
> **Tamassran** \- "those who speak"; a priestess who is charged with educating the young, interviewing captives, and assigning Qunari their roles within society
> 
>  **Maraas imekari** \- bleating child
> 
>  
> 
>  **Arvaarad** \- "one who holds back evil"; a Qunari who watches over the saarebas (Qunari mages) and hunts Tal-Vashoth
> 
>  
> 
>  **Saarebas** \- "dangerous thing"; the Qunari word and title for their mages


	2. Chapter 2

Once they were back at camp and setting up their tents and bedrolls for the evening, Iona joined Sten by the fire. He had drawn the first watch, and so the others were retreating for the night while he stood alone, lost in contemplation.

“Hello, Sten,” she smiled, patting a patch of grass next to her as she sat down. After a moment’s hesitation, the Qunari joined her. “Oof, that’s a little colder than I expected. Maybe we should cut up logs to sit on next time.” Closing her eyes and concentrating, she cast a heat glyph around them, drawing the warmth of the fire about them like a shawl. “There. Better, hmm?”

“Why did you do that?” Sten asked, looking curious.

“Well, I don’t know about _you_ , but I was feeling a little chilly, and I didn’t want to freeze half to death before the fire had any effect on me,” she chuckled. “You’re a lot bigger than I am, so maybe you don’t feel it as badly.”

“You do not wear armour, neither you or Morrigan. Why is that? It would keep you warmer.”

“It would be harder to move easily and cast spells if I wore armour,” Iona explained. “And seeing as I’m the healer for everyone, it’s pretty important that _I_ at least can swing my arms around as fast as I need to.” She whirled them about like little windmills, giggling. “Just like that, see?”

“Is there no armour for mages, then?”

She thought for a moment. “Possibly… but I wasn’t given any when I left the Circle, and it would probably be quite hard to come by. Besides, these robes are so stylish, aren’t they?” Irving had given her a padded blue-grey robe trimmed with gold that she had cinched about her waist with a belt, and it filled her with great pride to look at it; it was a sign she was a Harrowed mage, no longer an apprentice, and able to take on a greater role in Circle life.

As she explained this to Sten, Iona remembered something. “You were in a cage when we found you, Sten. How long had you been there?”

“Twenty days, or close enough as makes little difference.”

Her eyes boggled. “ _Twenty days_? With no food or water?”

“Within a few days, I would have weakened and died.”

“You can survive for _twenty days_ in that state?”

Sten only grunted, looking into the flames.

Iona slid a little closer to him. “Do you mind if I ask why you were there?” she said quietly.

“I killed the people of a farmhold. Eight humans, including the children.” His tone grew softer, and she noticed the way he would not meet her eyes.

She could only gasp. “Sten! That’s… that’s _horrible_.” She shook her head, trying not to cry.

“I agree.”

The fire crackled in front of them as they sat together in uneasy silence, pondering the significance of his words.

“Why did you do it, Sten? You obviously feel guilt over it.”

The Qunari turned to face her with hollow eyes, and Iona gulped. “Either you have an enviable memory, or a pitiable life, to know nothing of regret,” he said tersely.

She reached out to touch his shoulder. “Of course I know regret,” Iona said quietly, looking down at her feet. Her companion did not reply, so she breathed in deeply and continued. “I betrayed my best friend. The only person that ever showed me any kind of affection or care in the Circle, except maybe the First Enchanter, but he was too busy to be around me all the time the… the way Jowan was.”

Iona sighed. “He fell in love with an acolyte, Lily, and he wanted to escape the Circle to be with her. No mage ever leaves the Circle though, not without strict permission and only for very limited reasons.” She gave a hollow laugh. “You’re there for life. A prison with no bars, where you can walk freely but never leave.”

“I assume he escaped,” Sten said.

“In a way.” She hadn’t realised how pent up it had been inside her; now she was finally discussing it with someone, Iona found she couldn’t stop. “He wanted me to help him find his phylactery. That’s a little vial with blood that they take from you when you first arrive, and they use it to track you if you ever escape,” she added. “And… well, I agreed.”

“And then what happened?”

“Then I went to Irving, the First Enchanter, and reported the scheme.” She buried her face in her hands and groaned. “I was newly Harrowed. I’d passed the test, I’d done everything they wanted. I didn’t want anything to ruin my chances of success, and Jowan’s plan sounded crazy from the start. I… I didn’t want to risk anything. Not even for him.”

She shook her head. “He hadn’t had his Harrowing, you see, and he was starting to worry. He thought they’d… make him Tranquil.”

“What is… Tranquil? Or Harrowing?” Sten asked her.

“Ah, I forget you don’t know.” Explaining it to him would stop the guilt from bubbling back up to the surface, at least. “A Harrowing is a test every mage takes, when it’s believed they’re ready. Your mind is sent into the Fade and you fight a demon. You have to prove you’re not going to be possessed; that you can hold your own against demons in the Fade and not be a risk to yourself or anyone around you.” She sighed. “And if you take too long, or they suspect _anything_ , the templars kill you. I’m not really supposed to talk about it to anyone,” she laughed, “but then I guess I’m not part of the Circle anymore. I’m a Grey Warden, so I won’t be going back to Kinloch Hold. I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

“Did you have friends among the templars?”

“Not really. They prowl around and keep you at arm’s length, because getting attached to someone you might have to kill later would be… _difficult_ , I suppose.” She paused. “I’ve never tried thinking from their perspective, actually. Still, they were always distant to me and every other mage there, so… no. Except… except… _hmm_.”

“Except what?”

“There was one templar, Cullen. He was… attracted to me.” Iona blushed. “I didn’t think he was so bad looking, either. After my Harrowing, I approached him about it. He ran away, so hot in the face you could fry an egg on his cheeks,” she laughed.

“Is this rare?”

“What, romance between templars and mages?” She chuckled. “It makes up the backbone of all the bawdy literature you could get your hands on in the tower – which isn’t much, mind you – but I wouldn’t say it was exactly _common_. It’s forbidden, taboo, and that makes the thought of it exciting. But in practice?” She shrugged. “Well, you’d have to be very careful. And any children you had together would be taken by the Chantry anyway, but I guess if neither of you will be leaving any time soon, it makes little difference. The templars can retire, at least.”

“And what is Tranquil?”

“The Rite of Tranquillity?” Iona shuddered. “I don’t really know how it works. It’s a big mystery, and that’s what makes it even scarier. Some mages don’t want to take their Harrowing, because if you fail, you die. Some of them are just too frightened; they don’t want that risk. So they _ask_ to be made Tranquil.” She sighed. “It can be used as a punishment, too. Step out of line and be made Tranquil. Do this? Tranquil. Cough too loud in a templar’s hearing? Tranquil. Well, I don’t think _that_ would happen, but you hear horrible stories.”

“What does it do? Do you know this?”

“The Tranquil are mages who have had their connection to the Fade removed… somehow. They can’t use magic anymore, or dream… and they become so _cold_. You look into their eyes, and there’s nothing there. It’s like looking at a… a lifeless husk shambling around, speaking in a monotone. They don’t have emotions anymore. It’s _terrifying_.” She trembled despite the heat. “They burn lyrium into their foreheads as a brand, so it’s pretty obvious to know who’s Tranquil and who’s not. Other than that, I don’t know anything about the Rite, and I never want to.”

“Can the Tranquil do anything you can’t, if they don’t have this connection anymore?”

She paused, startled. “They work in the storerooms, as cleaners, accountants… anything that doesn’t need magic to do, a Tranquil will do it. And they’re very talented at enchanting things, imbuing them with lyrium and giving them all kinds of effects. They sell the things they make to the outside world, and that keeps the Circle from collapsing in on itself. We don’t exactly need money in our daily lives, but there’s still costs involved in maintaining the towers, getting food and supplies, that sort of thing.”

“And what did your First Enchanter do?” he asked, bringing her back to the story. While she had been lost in all the other details, Sten had kept his focus like a dog clinging to a bone.

“He said I should play along with their scheme. Make them feel like they could…” Iona gulped down a sob. “Like they could _trust_ me. And they did, both of them.”

“And what did you do?”

“To cut a long story short, we eventually managed to get to the phylactery chamber. We had to fight our way past enchanted statues that fought us – Irving must have put in security measures to protect it from other mages who wanted to escape. Jowan crushed his phylactery and… so did I. I don’t know why.” She paused. “It just… it felt _right_. Something in the back of my head told me to do it, and so I smashed it beneath my foot. Then the impulse was gone, and I was just left with this…  strange feeling.”

“And then what happened?”

“Then we blasted our way out and knocked down a wall,” Iona chuckled. “I hope they can get that repaired soon.”

“Then Jowan escaped?”

“No. Because Irving knew of the plot, he was there to meet us on the other side, with the templar leader, Greagoir and Duncan, the Grey Warden recruiter. He was there to collect mages for the king’s cohort,” she added. “Irving praised me for telling them about it, and then Jowan screamed at me for betraying him.” She wiped her watering eyes. “He looked so… sad.”

“And so they arrested the two who wanted to escape?”

“They arrested Lily. No doubt she’ll go to Aeonar, the magical prison. But before that could happen, they told Jowan he would be made Tranquil. He’d always suspected it, and so he snapped. He was a blood mage, a _maleficarum_ , and he used his spells to knock us all out and escape.”

“So he is out there somewhere? Lost in Ferelden?”

“Yes. And because he destroyed his phylactery, it’ll be nearly impossible to track him down.” She paused. “Maybe… maybe we’ll come across him again somewhere.” The thought was bittersweet. Jowan would be furious to see her again, she admitted, but a part of her still wanted to see him; to apologise and beg forgiveness, or even just to hug him the way they used to.

“And your regret is that you feel you betrayed your best friend?”

She nodded, unable to say it out loud.

Sten sighed. Iona felt a large, warm hand on her shoulder. It was more like a dragon’s paw, easily dwarfing her own, yet it was firm and reassuring. “You obeyed the orders of your kind. You stayed true to your beliefs and did not even let a _kadan_ sway you from your path. That is the kind of loyalty and certainty and self-control that many of my people would kill for; that is the very _essence_ of the Qun.”

Iona turned to face him and saw him looking proudly back at her. She felt her face grow warm and tried to hide her smile, yet he gently tilted her chin until their eyes met once more and then dropped it. The hand on her shoulder remained, comforting her. “Would the Qun… accept someone like me? A mage? An _elf_?”

“I do not know,” Sten admitted. “They would probably make you a _saarebas_ if you tried. But many elves have risen high in the Qun. We each have a carefully assigned role, even the _viddathari_ , and we all have our place in society. Everyone is equal under the Qun.”

“If anyone tried to so much as prod my lips with a needle, I’d burn them alive,” Iona promised him. Then she pressed her head in her hands. “That probably didn’t help, did it?”

“It would not be a good sign of self-control.”

“What does the Qun do for people who… _aren’t_ in the Qun? Other than kill them, I suppose.” She laughed weakly.

“A worthy opponent is a _basalit-an_. A person worthy of respect, yet not of the Qun.”

“Am I… one of those?”

“I thought you said nobody here was your enemy.”

Iona stared at him for a moment then burst into laughter. “I knew it! I knew it! You _are_ telling a joke!” She dissolved into a fit of giggling.

Sten grunted. “I am doing no such thing.”

“Oh, come off it! There’s a soft centre underneath all that gruffness, I just know it. I’ll try to draw it out of you someday. It’ll be like biting into a fondue and tasting all the jam in the middle oozing into your mouth.”

“I am not a fondue. Or jam.” He frowned at her.

“No, you’re more like… _hmm_.” She paused. “You’re like bitter lemon pie. Scratch that, you’re like biting into a pile of onions.”

“Is there any point to this?” Sten turned away from her, scowling at the fire and taking his hand away from her shoulder.

“A friendly conversation? Well, _usually_ they’re used as a bonding experience. Strengthening social ties.” Iona counted them off on her fingers. “Sometimes to ease the tension. Relax the atmosphere… hmm, that’s all I can think of.”

“ _Parshaara_!” He groaned, shaking his head.

“Andraste’s tits!” She folded her arms at him when he stared back, confused. “Two can play at that game, Sten,” Iona said, smirking. “If you’re going to swear at me in… whatever language that was just now, I’ll just curse you right back.”

“Are all Grey Wardens this infuriating? I have had no such problems with Alistair.”

“Well, if you want a _friendly conversation_ with Alistair, why don’t you go and shake him awake and talk to him?” She glared at him. “I was _trying_ to be nice to you, _trying_ to put you at ease and help you relax, but you’re more caged up than… than… _ugh_!” She stamped her foot on the floor in frustration and was on the verge of sending a fireball into the centre of the flames, clenching and unclenching her fist.

“Go to sleep, Iona,” Sten said in a softer tone that made her pause. “You will need rest for tomorrow, or you will be tired. It would be irresponsible for a leader to fall asleep on their men.”

“I wouldn’t be able to sleep now, anyway,” Iona grumbled. “Too worked up.”

He shook his head. “You need rest.”

“Look, I promise you I – hey, _put me down_!” The giant scooped her up in his arms where she feebly kicked in protest and carried her to the entrance flap of her tent, where he put her down slowly.

“ _Rest_ ,” Sten insisted. He moved with surprising delicacy for a man his size, Iona noticed; he could turn their battlefields into a blood-soaked nightmare, yet he had only ever been gentle with her.

She tried and failed to hide a yawn, and the Qunari grunted at her. “You have exerted yourself too much, and now you must rest.”

“I – thank you, Sten,” she said quietly, offering him a shy smile. “I’m sorry for snapping at you a bit just now. I got a little carried away, I think, but I was only trying to tease you.”

“Tease me?” He seemed perplexed again, and she could only laugh.

“Goodnight, Sten,” Iona smiled, waving at him as she let the flap fall behind her.

Sten moved back over to the fire, keeping an eye out for any sign of danger. He took his greatsword from its sheathe and laid it by his feet, within easy reach should he need to attack, but he suspected it would be unlikely; the night was so still and quiet that the only sound they could hear for miles were chirping crickets, and any enemy would have a distinct disadvantage if they tried to sneak past his easy vantage point.

Slowly, the flames rearranged themselves into the shape of Iona’s face as she smiled and laughed at him, murmuring things that made little sense but seeming very amused at his expense all the same.

 _Teasing_ , the little elf called it. She confused him more than he could say, but he enjoyed her company well enough. Iona was quick to smile and laugh, and the others respected her, even if she was far more relaxed of an authority figure than any he was used to.

‘We’re all friends here,’ she had told him. ‘ _Equals_.’ She was their leader, the Warden in charge, so she was not _truly_ an equal. Still, she treated everyone the same way, with no clear signs of ranks or divisions. There was no second-in-command, or any of the formalised stations he would have expected among such a famous group of individuals.

She _is not what you expect_ , he thought. _She is a mage, an elf, and a woman. She goes where she pleases, and acts as she likes, and yet they would all die for her._

Iona was a mess of contradictions in his mind, and it left him unsettled. Sten counted the stars above him, wondering if perhaps they shared the same names in this strange land. _She is truly an alien_ , he mused, wiping his sword down for the fiftieth time that evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Kadan** \- Literally, "where the heart lies;" friend. An all-purpose word for a "person one cares about," including colleagues, friends and loved ones. Also means "the center of the chest." 
> 
> **Viddathari** \- a convert to the Qun
> 
>  
> 
>  **Saarebas** \- a mage
> 
>  
> 
>  **Parshaara** \- enough


	3. Chapter 3

“What are these?” Sten asked her, pointing at the flowers they rode past. The party was on their way to Redcliffe to see Arl Eamon, who Alistair had explained could help with the Blight effort. Iona had agreed to start with him, and Sten, Alistair and Morrigan were accompanying her, along with her newly adopted mabari hound. She had decided to call him Irving, because it made her laugh.

“Kinds of wildflowers,” Iona explained. “That’s scarlet pimpernel. Summer pheasant’s-eye. Tickle-my-fancy. Elfroot, of course. Coltsfoot. Barren strawberry. All kinds of things.” She smiled. “Why do you ask?”

“I wish to understand my surroundings. The _arishok_ wants to understand Ferelden and discover more about the Blight.”

“And I’m sure telling him about wildflowers will _really_ help his understanding of the Blight,” Morrigan sniffed. “Are you going to woo him with a bouquet when you return?”

“Ah, don’t be silly,” Iona said quickly before Sten could respond. “Half of those are medicinal anyway, not romantic. I studied herblore and botany in the tower because I wanted to learn how to make poultices myself, and those would be fairly useless to woo anyone with.”

“Least of all the _arishok_ ,” Sten said dryly. “You would woo him better with a sword than plants and poetry.”

“Good thing he’s not here with us, then,” Alistair grinned. “All we have to offer him in Ferelden is bad poetry, mud, dogs and passable flowers. Oh, and rain.”

Irving yelped.

“No, no, _you’re_ not a bad dog,” Alistair assured him. “You’re a brave and fierce warrior who strikes fear into the heart of all darkspawn.”

Irving barked happily and ran along further ahead, sniffing excitedly.

“Did you ever have a dog, Sten?” Iona asked him.

“No. We do not have pets such as this. He would be a distraction in battle.”

“Tch, half of Ferelden just had a heart attack,” she teased. “We take our mabari very seriously. They’re not just pets, but war-dogs, and they can fight with the strength and determination of ten men combined. And they would be forever loyal to their master until their last breath.”

“I have noticed that he seems very fond of you,” the Qunari mused. “I thought perhaps this was because you were the one who feeds him.”

“I also saved his life, you know,” Iona smiled. “He would have died of Blight sickness without a medicine I helped prepare, or so the kennelmaster at Ostagar told me. After the battle he found me, and we’ve been together ever since.”

“A noble beast.”

“Indeed,” she grinned. “He likes you too.” 

 

* * *

 

“Let’s set up camp around here,” Alistair recommended a few hours later, when the sun had set. “We’ll rest here for the night, then spend the rest of tomorrow travelling. With any luck, we should be there at the following dawn by my estimate.”

“Your estimate is akin to a child playing with sticks in the dirt and forgetting they have snot dribbling down their chin,” Morrigan told him.

“Why can’t you just crawl into a hole somewhere and die? A spider-infested hole that’s all dark and slimy?”

They had moved away from the main road a while ago, sticking to leafy and shadowy passages through the dense woodlands to make their trail harder to follow. The spot Alistair had chosen was in a little glade surrounded by trees, and he explained he hoped their height and tall leaves would help hide the smoke from the campfire.

He went to tie up the horses while Morrigan set wards around the camp, and Iona bundled some sticks together and set them alight with a lazy flick of her wrist.

Sten watched her as he set up the tents. The little elf had bought new robes, as they had all saved enough coin for armour and essentials, and he found himself admiring the way the green dye complimented her blonde hair. It gave her a natural, earthy look, the way he suspected the Dalish might look.

He knew little about the Dalish, other than that they were savage people of the forests who lived in the wild and sacrificed local humans to cruel and bloodthirsty gods, stealing anything they could from unsuspecting travellers and delighting in misdirection and pranks that could be as harmless as they could be deadly. They wore the natural world about their body, clothing themselves in mud, dirt and plants, and they were as wild as their surroundings, tattooing their faces with symbols to threaten anyone who might be so foolish as to encounter them.

Or so his brothers had suggested. Sten had never seen a Dalish elf in the flesh, and so his only knowledge came from rumours. He suspected most of them were fabrications or exaggerations, but there was little else to base his understanding off of.

Iona had never been among the Dalish, had she? He knew enough of Ferelden to know that most elves lived in the cities among the humans, and the Dalish were the outliers of the land. She had been plucked away to Kinloch Hold at four, he remembered, and she had not left it until relatively recently. Most likely she had never seen the Dalish either.

On a curious impulse, he wondered what Iona would look like among the Dalish. They were kin, were they not? The wildness and chaotic living would have been the very opposite of the order and structure the Qun espoused… yet she was no Qunari, neither in body nor belief. The Qun would probably not have approved of her lax attitudes on so many things, and yet he found himself far less bothered by it than perhaps he should have been.

_I am not a priest_ , Sten reminded himself. _I am just a soldier. This is not my place_.

Still, the thought of Iona as some shrieking force of nature was oddly appealing. There would be a kind of feral beauty to her, he suspected, unfussed by what anyone thought or said or did.

_Not so different to how she is now_ , he thought dryly.

What did the Dalish think of magic? Was it different to the rest of Ferelden? Sten had no idea… but imagining her as a mage unchained by society had its own appeal. She would be free and unjudged, the way neither her people nor his would permit. It was… strangely _sad_ , and it raised too many confusing and suspicious thoughts that made him uneasy, so he distracted himself in simple visualisation.

He was beginning to lose himself in imagining Iona as a wild, mud-streaked creature with twigs in her hair running barefoot at him, screaming curses as she rained down fire and chaos from above, when the elf in question nudged him nudged him gently.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Iona smiled. “You’ve only got one tent done. Three more to go.” She pointed out the places where they should have been pitched a long time ago, chuckling at him. “They teach counting under the Qun, right?” She elbowed him teasingly.

He noticed the others giving him amused looks and felt embarrassed. “I was offering a prayer for our security,” Sten lied through gritted teeth. “Nothing more. I will finish the tents now.”

“Is our giant friend _blushing_?” Alistair chuckled. “Ooh, don’t tell me! Something scandalous, I bet.”

“Ah, leave him be,” Iona said, though she couldn’t help a smile. “It happens to the best of us. Now, Alistair and Morrigan can go hunting for our supper.” Ignoring their complaints, she turned to Irving. “And you can look around the local area. See if there’s anything interesting or useful you can find, or if anyone was here recently. There’s a good boy.” She ruffled his ears and bent down to give him a kiss.

The mabari licked her cheek and barked happily before scampering away in the opposite direction to the other two humans, who were now complaining bitterly to each other about having to hunt and leave behind the warmth of the fire and the cozy tents.

Iona chuckled. “I got them to agree on _something_ , at least.”

The Qunari did not reply. He was steadfastly avoiding her gaze, and it made her concerned.

“What’s wrong, Sten?” she whispered. “I hope they didn’t upset you earlier. It was only a little light-hearted teasing, nothing serious, I assure you. But if it makes you uncomfortable, I can tell them to -”

“There is no need for that, Iona.” Sten coughed, still not meeting her gaze. “I was thinking of personal things. I would rather they did not know.”

“Of course.” The elf nodded sagely. “Your secret’s safe with me. Well, I don’t even _know_ what you were thinking, but I won’t ask, so it’s even _safer_ , see?” She chuckled.

“Do you know anything about the Dalish?” Sten asked her, hoping she would not work out why. These were forbidden thoughts, _dangerous_ ones, and he did not understand why the image of her clung so stubbornly to his consciousness. He could not shake away the thought of her if he tried, and it puzzled him. _Frightened_ him. It was wrong, and strange, and yet –

“The Dalish? Hmm, let’s see. They’re the elves who never agreed to live under Chantry rule, and so they wander the wilderness and worship the old gods.” Iona sighed. “I always wanted to run away someday and join them. The _shems_ couldn’t hurt me, then. I’d be freer than the wind in my hair, and I could learn the old magic, too.” She blushed. “That was a fantasy of mine, at least. I doubt it could ever come true, especially now I’m a Grey Warden.” She tilted her head to the side, thinking. “Then again, I don’t have a phylactery anymore, so…. _Hmm_.”

“What are _shems_?”

“ _Shemlen_. Humans.” She looked guiltily at her feet. “It’s, ah, not a nice word.”

“And you want to live among the Dalish?”

“Well… _maybe_.” She shrugged, affecting an air of nonchalance that he knew was purely for his benefit; Iona cared far more about this than she would admit, he reckoned. “I’d like to visit them, at least. See what it’s like not living under someone else’s thumb. Alistair said one of our treaties concerns a clan in the Brecilian Forest.” She grinned at him. “I may get a chance after all.”

“I could see it,” Sten blurted out, mindless of what he was doing. “I think it would suit you.” He cut himself off before he could further embarrass himself in front of her, but the elf seemed charmed, unaware of his panic.

“It would, wouldn’t it?” Iona laughed. “I wouldn’t look so bad, hmm?” She paused to conjure up the image in her head. “Dressed all in leaves, feeling the earth beneath my toes. I wonder what you’d think of me,” she teased, creeping closer.

“ _Absolutely nothing_ ,” Sten said quickly. A firm edge had crept into his voice as he panicked, and it came across far harsher than he had intended.

The elf recoiled, looking hurt. “Sten, I – I – ”

“Who wants roast rabbit?” Alistair called out cheerfully, blissfully unaware of what he had just walked into. He held a rabbit in each hand, clutching them by the ears, and he set about readying them for the spit.

Morrigan was not so oblivious. “What’s wrong, Iona?” she asked quietly. “You look like you’re in pain.”

“I’m fine,” Iona responded, flashing her a tight, forced smile. “My stomach just hurts a little. I’m going to retire to my tent now, so you wouldn’t mind bringing my supper to my bedside, would you?”

“Of course,” the witch nodded.

“Thank you, Morrigan.” With staged cheeriness and obvious relief, Iona left them behind as Alistair tended to the rabbits he had caught.

Irving bounded back, clutching something in his mouth. Seeing Iona’s absence, he whined pitifully.

“She’s in her tent,” Alistair explained. “She felt a little poorly. What’s that you’ve got there, boy?”

Irving backed away from his curious hand and bounded straight into Iona’s tent, barking to his mistress.

Alistair sighed. “Strange. I didn’t notice she felt bad earlier. Did you see anything, Sten?”

“It was… a very sudden pain,” the Qunari said slowly.

“Don’t be such a fool, Alistair!” Morrigan hissed. “She needs privacy right now.”

“But I – _ah_. Message received.” He flushed a deep crimson, and even his ears reddened. _What a strange human_ , Sten mused.

Alistair shook his head quickly and went back to the fire, whistling tunelessly as he turned the rabbits too many times.

 

* * *

 

“Supper’s ready!” Morrigan called, knocking on the flaps of Iona’s tent. “Are you ready for me to bring it to you?”

“Yes, thank you Morrigan,” the elf called from within. “Just leave it by the bedroll, would you?”

The witch stooped down to enter and crawled over, gently setting down the bowl of steaming rabbit by her side.

Irving barked appreciatively. “Not for _you_ , mangy beast,” Morrigan chided, and he slinked away.

“I’ll feed you the leftovers later if you’re good,” Iona promised him, and he barked happily and went to sleep.

“Are you okay, Iona?” Morrigan whispered softly, giving her shoulder a gentle stroke. “I have some bark in my pack you can chew for the pain, if that helps.”

“The pain?” The elf looked bewildered.

Morrigan patted her stomach. “Or if you prefer another remedy, I can brew –”

“ _Ah_! No no, it’s… it’s fine. _I’m_ fine,” Iona laughed.  “I didn’t have any stomach pains, to tell you the truth. I just felt… upset. I had to get away from St – ah, from _somebody_ for a moment, that’s all.”

“Did Sten hurt you?” The witch’s voice was as cold as ice. “I’ll melt him into a gourd if he – ”

“ _No!_ ” Iona cried out desperately, shaking her head. “It’s nothing like that, whatever you’re thinking! I was just being immature.” The furs fell from around her as she let her arms dangle limply by her side.

“Are you sure?” Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “Well, if you need no help, then I’ll be outside with the others.” She paused. “You can always… talk to me,” she added, sounding less than comfortable about the idea.

Iona couldn’t help laughing. “Thank you, Morrigan. I won’t waste your time any longer.”

The witch nodded and crawled out of the tent.

Iona sighed. “Well, that went a lot better than I was fearing,” she mused to Irving, whose only response was a low, continuous snore. “I’d better eat the rabbit before it goes cold.” She tucked into her supper in resigned silence, thinking about all that had passed.

 

* * *

 

Sten looked about the dark and gloomy patch they had camped in, scanning their surroundings distractedly. He was still deeply unsettled by what had happened earlier, and he could not help himself from murmuring a few curses quietly as he tossed twigs into the fire, watching the flames eagerly devour them with a hiss and puff of smoke.

The thing that scared him the most was that he had _liked_ his brief little fantasy of her; that he had actually found her comely and attractive. For a moment, his thoughts had been clouded with desire. The irony that the _object_ of this desire was the one who had released him from it was not lost on him.

_I have been too long in this land already_. It was beginning to addle his mind. His brothers would have been amused with how foolish he was acting… or maybe they would have been disgusted with what he was thinking.

He was not sure if the Qun even _sanctioned_ mating between his kind and others; they obsessively charted and planned his people’s breeding the way a farmer might clinically do the same for his prized livestock. No children would emerge from such a union, so what would be the point?

Or _would_ they? And would Iona survive such a birth? She was not fragile, but she was far smaller than a Qunari woman, and her body might not have been able to take it. Maybe no elf or human woman could.

_No. Do not think of such a thing. It was a dream, a fantasy. Nothing more_.

He shook his head, idly staring into the fire, filling his head with prayers he could only half-concentrate on.

 

* * *

 

“What are you thinking?” Iona asked him. She had appeared so quietly that it startled him, wiping all thoughts of the Qun from his mind. Her robe had changed; by the looks of things she had exchanged her usual one that she wore fighting for a long white nightgown, yet she did not appear embarrassed in front of him.

“I was tending the fire,” Sten replied, not looking at her. He was reluctant to risk offending her again or cause further misunderstanding – _and a needless one at that_ , he thought bitterly – and so decided to only give her the briefest responses he could, hoping his brusqueness might drive her away.

It only seemed to make her more determined to talk to him, alas; he wondered if she thought it was a personal failing of hers that they danced around each other like this, and whether she was trying to draw him out of his shell.

“That’s not what I asked.” Something in her tone brooked no argument. This was Iona the _leader_ speaking with the voice of authority, and not the curious, friendly young woman he was used to. Iona was giving him an order, looking for all the world like a _tamassran_ as she stood beside him, hands on her hips and giving him a steely look. “I asked what you were _thinking_ , not _doing_ , although now I think I can add a second action.”

“And what would that be?” It took a great deal of effort not to smile; the sight of her like that brought back memories of home. Still, it would most likely be construed as a further insult, perhaps understandably, and so Sten wisely refrained from showing any emotion whatsoever.

“Avoiding me.”

“Were you not avoiding me yourself?” he asked quickly before she could snap at him; her eyebrow was already raised. “You went to hide in your tent instead of talking to me directly. Unless your stomach _was_ hurting, you are being a hypocrite.”

A patch of grass close to his feet was burnt to a crisp, blackening and shrivelling up under her frosty glare. “You do _not_ have the right!” she yelled. Iona muttered a string of curses under her breath that he could barely translate before she turned back to face him. A lot of them seemed to involve the Maker and various genitals, Sten noticed.

“You do _not_ have the right to accuse me of avoiding you,” she said, her voice barely constrained. She was clearly trying not to raise her voice too much, and so it came out more as an angry hiss; somehow that only made it even more threatening. “You do _not_ have the right when you barely offer me more than a few syllables. You won’t tell me anything about yourself, your past, your family… even your _people_. I know _nothing_ about the Qun, or the Qunari, but I don’t know _anything_ about _you_! And you won’t even _tell_ me!” Iona’s fists were balled up and crackling with lightning.

Sten took a pre-emptive step back, raising his hands in surrender. “You feel very strongly about this, and I did not realise – ”

“ _Of course_ I do, you – you _idiot_!” A bolt of lightning whizzed past his body, making the air crackle and burn around his left side. He winced. “I’m the one in charge here! I’m supposed to know the people I work with and be able to _trust_ them! But you don’t trust me at all!”

She didn’t even look angry anymore. All the venom and fury in her face and voice had been replaced by a heavier tone, one of failure…. and sadness. It made him feel oddly guilty, even if he didn’t know or couldn’t explain why.

“You haven’t even told me your _name_ ,” Iona said quietly. “You called yourself a Sten of the Beresaad, but that’s just a title.”

“That _is_ my name,” Sten told her. “We do not have names under the Qun. Only titles that reflect our current position. If I held a different position tomorrow, I would not be a Sten anymore.”

Her eyes widened. “But that’s…” She stopped herself, then shook her head and carried on. “It’s like you’re not even _human_.”

“I’m not.” Sten raised an eyebrow at her.

For a moment Iona could only stare at him, mouth open. Then she made a noise of pure frustration.

“Don’t do that! Don’t just _joke_ like that in a serious situation!”

“I was not joking. There would be no purpose in humour here.”

“ _Maker_ , I swear sometimes you – ” Iona stopped and sighed. “You’re… different to what I expected, I suppose. Sometimes it’s more apparent than other times. I guess this is just one of them.”

“And what did you expect?”

“I… I don’t _know_.”

There was an awkward silence between the two of them that lasted a little too long, neither of them looking at or making any contact with each other. Both seemed suddenly aware of the other, and the fact that all their companions had long since gone to bed (and were mercifully too far gone to hear their argument), leaving them alone together.

It was an uncomfortable thought.

“I want this to work,” Iona said, looking into his eyes. She seemed close to tears, and it made his stomach twist. “I… want you to feel comfortable here with us. With _me_.” Her breath came out in a shaky gasp that was not too far from becoming a sob. “But the way you act, think, talk… No, _everything_ about you is different. I don’t know what to do, but I’m _supposed_ to. You’ve said it so many times yourself.” She laughed weakly. “I’m the leader, am I not? Yet I can’t lead _you_ , apparently. I can’t even _talk_ with you normally because Maker knows you have more walls up than a Tevinter fortress, but then I _try_ and – and…” She trailed off awkwardly, looking intently at her feet.

“Is this what you wish for?” The low rumble brought her out of her thoughts, yet she still refused to look at him. “You wish to be… _friends_?”

The word sounded so alien on his tongue that Iona couldn’t help laughing, seeing how puzzled the Qunari appeared. “You make it sound like I’m asking you to swallow poison, Sten,” she giggled.

“It is a breach of protocol. You are the one with authority, and I am the one who follows your orders. This would be like fraternisation.”

Iona chuckled. “Well, we’re _not_ an organisation. We’re not even the Grey Wardens, Maker help us. We’re just a few people and a dog who took it upon themselves to make the people of Ferelden a little less dead.” She shook her head, still trying (and failing) not to laugh. “If anything, fraternisation would probably _help_ in the long run.”

“But that is incredibly unprofessional,” Sten said, frowning.

“Do we _look_ professional to you, Sten?” She smiled at him. “I’m a barely qualified mage, Morrigan is a – a _swamp witch_ , Leliana is a bard who’d prefer to live her life in a cloister and Alistair is a templar scared of his own shadow. And we’ve got my adopted mabari hound who smells worse than any darkspawn and slobbers whenever he’s awake. I think we’re probably the _least_ professional band you’re going to stumble across, but we make do somehow.”

“I do not understand.”

“Well, _that’s_ a first,” Iona said dryly.

Sten could only scowl at her. “You seem so relaxed about this. The order, the structure, _everything_. It makes no sense. You are paving the way to disrespect and disorder.”

“I don’t just want them to _respect_ me, Sten,” Iona told him. “I want them to _like_ me, too. There’s a difference between a rigid military hierarchy and a band of nobodies. Besides, we’re probably going to die before we even reach the Archdemon.” She shuddered, and this time the tears really _did_ fall. Bravely, she tried to wipe them away with the back of her hand, but more and more fell in their place. After only a few seconds, Iona was sobbing messily, turning away from him in shame as her back heaved.

Sten was not sure what to do. He simply stood there watching her cry as he tried to figure out an appropriate way to make her stop. If anything else, her wailing would most likely alert enemies to their location, and he felt his hand twitch and reach instinctively to clutch the sheathe of his greatsword.

Yet seeing her weep and continue weeping made him feel uneasy in its own right. Acting against his better judgement, he laid a wary hand on her shoulder, trying to think of the words people might say in this situation. How would his brothers approach a crying woman? He had no idea.

Iona turned around and sobbed into his chest, forcing him to wrap an arm around her to steady her. The other dangled awkwardly at his side as he wrestled with the impulse to pat her gently, or –

“I don’t want to die,” she whispered to him, her words getting distorted by hiccups as her crying slowly began to tail off.

_Everyone dies_ , he wanted to tell her, but restrained himself. It was as if his body was a puppet to a higher being, now; everything was going on instinct now, unthinking and without care for consequence or propriety.

“You won’t,” Sten assured her gruffly, giving her a gentle but hesitant pat. He was afraid of breaking any bones. “You are a capable healer _and_ fighter, and you are well equipped to fend for yourself in any battle, even if your modesty denies it.”

“But I’ll die anyway,” Iona said. Her voice sounded like it was being wrenched out of her with a dull blade. “The taint in my blood… It might not even give me thirty years, and that’s if I’m _lucky_.”

“That is a cruel fate.” The words came unbidden, and he couldn’t stop. “Is there no cure for it?”

“Not that I know of.” She managed a shaky laugh. “Besides, I wouldn’t be a Grey Warden then. Would you want the fate of Ferelden to rest on Alistair alone?”

“No.” They might as well hand the victor’s crown to the Archdemon _personally_ with the boy bumbling around alone, caught in perpetual japes and jokes as he tried to bluff his way through his duty.

“That was unfair of me, I know,” Iona said, adding in a note of reproach. It was almost as if she could hear his thoughts. “He’s perfectly capable. He’s the same age as me, too, so I don’t know why I keep talking about him like that.” She shook her head, groaning into his armour. “Maker, don’t tell me I’m turning jaded and cynical.”

“I do not believe so.”

“Well, that’s a relief, then,” she grinned, and he knew her melancholy had truly passed. “Now that I’ve rubbed my tears all over you, does that mean you’ll trust me more from now on?”

“I will… try.”

“No, that’s not a yes or a no.” Iona waggled her finger at him.

“Yes,” Sten sighed.

“Good!” She beamed up at him. “Friends?” Her hand was outstretched, pointing at him.

He feared he might crush it. “I do not see the point of – ”

“Don’t be such a _spoilsport_ , Sten! I’m just teasing you.” She nudged him. “So, friends?”

“What do you want me to do?” Sten was utterly perplexed.

Iona paused, looking uncertainly down at her own hand. “To shake it, of course. Do they not do that among the Qun?”

“No.” He was always embarrassed whenever she asked similar questions; it only highlighted the gulf of cultural differences between them, and all the little things and customs that he had never learnt of or been familiar with towered menacingly overhead every time Sten was reminded of how little he knew of these alien people.

“Well, do it like this, then.” She gently clasped her fingers around his and gave it a hesitant shake. “Like that, but with more… Well, never mind. It’s a sign we’re friends, at least.”

“But why would you do this?”

“Don’t ask me. It’s just a tradition, I suppose, even if it doesn’t make sense.” Iona looked down and realised she had not let go of his hand. With a squeak, she hastily dropped it. Her face was rapidly reddening, and her embarrassed cough did little to hide it.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other, saying nothing. Sten had not noticed before the light dusting of freckles over her cheeks, golden-brown and easily hidden before her crying had made them more visible; Iona had not noticed before how gentle and warm his expression could be, when he willed it.

“I hope you can understand why this is important to me,” she said slowly. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Sten. I just want us to be _closer_. Not this distance, this awkwardness, none of it.”

Those were precisely the words that _could_ make the situation awkward, he mused, yet her intent was clear enough. “I think so,” Sten replied hesitantly.

“No, you don’t,” Iona laughed, “but you’re trying anyway. That’s what matters.”

“And what now?”

“Now? Well…. We carry on as normal, except we’re buoyed a little by deepening bonds of companionship?” she teased.

“You are so hard to understand,” Sten muttered, which only made her laugh harder.

“And you’re hard to communicate with, so I think we’re even,” Iona smiled.

“ _Parshaara_.”

“There you go again.” She chuckled, shaking her head ruefully. “I take one step forward, two steps back with you, don’t I Sten?”

“That makes no sense.”

“Just an idiom. No dancing or footwork involved, I promise.” She tilted her head to the side in thought. “I don’t even know how to dance… but for you I’d learn,” she added teasingly.

“What would be the purpose?”

“Does there _need_ to be one?” Iona shrugged. “Can’t things just _happen_? Like all of this?” She raised her arms and gestured widely, indicating an expanse. “Everything we’re doing right now. Everything we’re thinking. Does that _need_ a purpose?”

“But without one there would be no point,” Sten said stubbornly. “There would be no reason behind it.”

She yawned, trying to stifle it behind her fist, but it would have been clear to even to a blind deepstalker that Iona was tired and running on dangerously low reserves of energy. “You should sleep, Iona,” Sten said gently, indicating her tent.

“What? Will you scoop me up again if I don’t?” Iona laughed. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind that. You’re all cozy and warm, you know.” She blushed, letting her hair flap over her cheeks to hide it and hoping he wouldn’t notice.

“Do you wish me to?”

She looked around, making sure they were not watched or overheard by anyone, then nodded. “Yes please,” Iona whispered. “It’s very comforting.”

Something in him fluttered hearing her say that, but Sten suppressed it, puzzled and irritated by the unwelcome and confusing feeling.

Gently and carefully, he slowly lifted her into his arms until they were chest to chest, feeling her snuggle closer to him instinctively. Iona weighed less than a feather, a tiny bird in comparison to the swords and weighty armour he was used to lugging around, and she was warm and soft to hold. She made sleepy noises of contentment as she wriggled into a comfortable position, wrapping an arm around his neck as she yawned against him again. The strange fluttering returned, and it left him vaguely irritable.

“You will need to sleep longer tomorrow to recover after this,” Sten chided her. “You should not push yourself against your limits so readily and often.”

“But then you’re always there for me,” Iona murmured sleepily. “You would… look after me.” Her sentence was broken up by a long yawn, and she clutched him even tighter.

“This is foolish, _imekari_.”

“But you…. You….” Iona could not help yawning again. Her eyes closed without protest, their lids already droopily heavily with the effort of staying half-awake.

Sten looked down to see her more or less asleep, lips parting as she relaxed and drifted off. He ducked down between the flaps of her tent, gently lowering her into her bedroll and pulling up her furs below her neck.

“Keep her warm,” he instructed Irving, who had been waiting by his mistress’s bedroll patiently since she had joined him. The dog happily obeyed, curling up on her abdomen and falling asleep quickly himself.

There was no further need for him to remain there, so he carefully closed the tent flaps behind him as he left and then went to wake up Alistair for the remainder of the watch. The boy grumbled and rubbed his eyes blearily, yet made no real complaint as he dressed into his armour and took his sword as he went to stand by the fire.

Sten returned to his own tent, removing his mail and letting it fall to the floor with a clunk as he wearily fell into the bedroll with a sigh, rubbing his joints. He would massage them before sleeping and first thing on waking; the weight of his armour often left him aching, and it was the only thing he knew that could help. Salves were too costly for him on the meagre soldier’s wage he was given when he left the confines of Qunari land and ventured forth into the unknown among the _bas_ , seeing as they all used coin of various description. He was still slightly unfamiliar with all the different currencies he had been forced to use over the years.

For a moment, he worried about the little elf. She was so small, and not as strong as she tried to appear; would she be safe and sound? Then he chuckled ruefully to himself; she had her hound, did she not? And why would he be so worried for a _bas_ mage to begin with? She did not have the horns or build of a Qunari woman, nor have much in common with him by way of beliefs either; yet still he found himself oddly charmed by her, and he could not say why.

_Not charmed_ , he told himself. _She wishes to be friendlier than I am used to in such a hierarchy, even if she ignores that it exists. In order to keep the peace, I must act as she wishes. It is not a question of my personal feelings, for they are neutral and will remain so_.

Reassured, Sten thought of the same prayer he always did on sleeping and waking. _Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun._ The certainty of the words and all they promised was a calming thought, and one that always helped him relax in times of confusion and stress.

The little elf confused him more than she would ever know, and the confusion left him feeling more stressed than he dared to admit. _Such a small person carries such a great shadow_ , Sten thought to himself with amusement as he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Arishok** \- One of the Triumvirate; male, leader of the army. He is responsible for defending his people, expanding Qunari territory, and is the effective head of state. The Arishok is sometimes mistaken for a king by outsiders. 
> 
> **Tamassran** \- a priestess among the Qunari
> 
> **Parshaara** \- enough
> 
> **Imekari** \- child
> 
> **Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun** \- Struggle is an illusion. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle against. Victory is in the Qun


	4. Chapter 4

"What exactly is Redcliffe?" Sten asked Iona, looking ahead as if hoping it might materialise suddenly. 

"From what Alistair told me, Redcliffe is a little village with, ah, red cliffs," Iona chuckled. "There's also a castle there that's pretty old. Older than the village itself, even. That's where the arl lives. With any luck, we'll be able to convince him to send forces to help us and then be on our merry way."

"How can a way be merry?"

"Not with  _that_ kind of attitude, Sten."

The ride had been enlightening for them both, using the chance of hours of monotonous travel to talk freely. There wasn’t much else for either of them to do except wearily look onwards and hope a rest spot or Redcliffe itself might appear if they wished for it hard enough, so they made the hours pass in conversation.

Sten had learnt more about Iona’s family, for one thing. She had told him about life growing up in the alienage, barely a few pennies away from being homeless yet still somehow stretching their meagre coin to make it last another month. They had only really survived through trading and bartering necessities with the other alienage elves, but that was the community’s principle; sharing everything with each other because they all had next to nothing themselves. Even the children had been more or less communally reared.

A wistful look passed over Iona’s face when she spoke of her parents. The little elf had explained to Sten that she wasn’t sure what had happened to them after she had been taken away by the templars, only discovered because she accidentally froze another child’s foot to the floorboards. Neither of them could read or write, and Iona had only learnt to do so because it would have been an embarrassment among the Circle if she had remained unable to do so. She had no means of contact with them, or any of the others, let alone any means of knowing if they were sick or even _alive_.

“I do not know my parents,” Sten offered to her, hoping it might distract his companion.

She gave him a teary-eyed look of shock. “What do you mean?” Iona blurted out, unthinking.

“Under the Qun, couples are only brought together for mating purposes. The two often do not know each other beforehand. The _tamssrans_ raise us, just as they determine our parentage. There is no space for… romance or family, as you would see it.”

“So… your parents could be _anyone_? You could walk past them and none of you would know?”

“Precisely.”

“But that’s horrible!” Iona protested, angrily clenching a fist.

“It is a life without distraction,” Sten replied mildly.

 “Well, you can’t tell me the Qunari never fall in love. You’re not… you’re not _machines_ , you know,” she carried on, determined. “So what would your priests do then?”

The Qunari remained silent but gave her a tight-lipped look of reproach that Iona only ignored.

“What happens if _you_ fell in love with somebody?” Iona asked, raising an eyebrow. “Would they make you leave the Qun or something?”

“There is no leaving the Qun,” Sten frowned.

“Well, say you did. They can’t kill you just for walking away.”

“They would,” he replied, eyes growing cold. “To become Tal-Vashoth is to be an abomination. There is no order, no peace without the Qun. It is what keeps us in check, denying our bestial impulses.”

“Bullshit,” Iona chuckled, shaking her head. “The Qun’s not the thing keeping you in control of yourself here in _Ferelden_ , Sten. That’s all _you_. You’re not a beast, believe me.” Wary of angering him, she added in a softer tone, “ _You_ are the one in control of yourself, not some….” She stopped suddenly, afraid of continuing.

“Not some _what_?” Her companion gave her a gimlet stare, and Iona quailed. “Without the Qun, I would be a monster. To be put down in that state would restore my honour and right the wrong of my existence.”

“I… I think we may have got on the wrong track here,” she said, laughing nervously. “Nobody’s going to kill you, Sten.”

“Should I fall into such a state, I would _request_ it of you.”

“I refuse,” Iona said quietly. “I’m not killing a friend of mine.”

“Then you are no friend,” Sten replied, urging his horse to ride further ahead.

Iona was left speechless, reins dangling limply in her hands as she sat frozen on her horse. Then she let out a roar of frustration. “That little – _argh_!” Clenching her hands tightly round the reins, she galloped onwards, blinking back tears.

 

* * *

 

  _I should not have pushed him_ , Iona thought to herself sadly as she caught up with the rest of the party. _It was wrong of me to needle him_. Still, she felt slightly rankled that the giant had simply rode away without another word, abandoning her on the road as if it meant nothing to him.

_Do I mean nothing to him_? She wondered. It was impossible to tell. Their friendship – if she could still call it that – was tentative, built from her fumbling attempts at connecting with him that always seemed to go wrong. _I have a chronic case of foot in mouth disease, it seems. I just don’t know when to shut up._

Hesitantly, Iona edged her horse closer to Sten. The Qunari did nothing to make her leave, for which she was grateful, yet he did nothing to welcome her either. He simply did not acknowledge her.

Something twisted sharply in her belly as she turned to him, seeing him look steadfastly ahead. “I’m sorry, Sten,” Iona whispered. “I got out of hand. I know it was wrong of me – ”

“Why did you not continue the sentence?” Sten asked, cutting her off. She looked at him blankly, and he sighed. “The Qun is not some _what_?”

“ _Oh_.” Was _that_ the thing that had irritated him the most? She thought it unlikely. “I was about to say something foolish,” Iona said helplessly.

“Say it.”

“I would have said, ‘Not some… some….” She paused. “’Not some _cult_ ,’” she added limply.

“Cult?” Sten looked puzzled. “What is this word?”

For a moment, she felt a stab of relief. She could have come up with any definition she felt like… but that would not have eased the guilt burning in her gut.

“It’s a group of people that have…. very certain beliefs,” Iona said slowly. “They are strictly controlled by that group, and they are unable to leave it. Usually they are told there is no life outside it.” She sighed unhappily.

“Why did you hesitate?” he asked her. “Is this not the Qun?”

She paused. “It’s not a compliment, Sten!” she answered, giving him an unhappy look. “The word implies its members are… are _brainwashed_!”

“Brain… washed?” He looked puzzled, and Iona could only sigh, shaking her head.

“The point is I was being _rude_. I was trying to impose my own beliefs on you and ignoring the fact you have your own,” she said quietly. “In truth, I would be fascinated to know more about the Qun, even if it… scares me a little.”

“I could not tell you,” the giant mused, startling her. “I am no priest, only a soldier.”

Iona laughed. “You don’t have to be _philosophical_ about it,” she smiled. “You just have to explain it, that’s all.”

“I can’t explain it.”

“Why?”

“Because it is not possible to reduce such a complex thing into simple categories,” he answered her shortly.

“Then just break it down a little more. _Make_ it simple.”

“The Qun is not simple, and neither are people. They cannot be summarised for easy reference in the manner of: ‘The elves are a lithe, pointy eared people who excel at poverty,’” Sten told her in a tone that suggested finality.

Iona looked incredulously at him. “I beg your pardon?” she asked, when she finally regained the power of speech. She pointed at her ears, disbelieving. “Did you forget I am also an elf? An elf who lived in poverty until the Chantry _kidnapped_ me?”

“And now you see why such summaries do not work, and why I cannot explain the Qun to you.”

She glared at him for a moment before softening. “I understand… I think.”

“You think, or you know?”

“Do you delight in asking questions?”

“I seek answers.”

“I can tell.” Iona couldn’t help but chuckle a little bit. “That’s stating the obvious a bit.”

“Well, I’m pleased the two of you have stopped bickering. Can we all hold hands and sing together now?” Alistair teased. “What? I’m not _deaf_ , you know. Half of Ferelden could probably hear you back there,” he explained when the pair of them gave him blank looks.

Iona blushed and avoided his gaze. Sten gave him a schooled expression instead. “Are we close to our destination?”

“Yes, actually. That was why I was wondering if I could borrow our junior Grey Warden for a little bit.” He gave her an amused glance. “I just have to go over the boring strategy stuff. You know, so the arl doesn’t think we’re country bumpkins who just turned up without a purpose.”

Sten nodded. “That makes sense,” he said gruffly.

“I’ll follow you, then,” Iona conceded hesitantly. She knew Alistair well enough to suspect that mischief might come of this, one way or another.

Her friend only chuckled. “You look at me like I’m trying to poison you,” he smiled, shaking his head. “Really? No trust? Oh, you _wound_ me, Iona.”

“I might if you lead us into a spider’s lair,” she answered, and the pair of them laughed. Sten only grunted in dismay. “I’ll be back in a year or so,” she told Sten, sticking her tongue out.

“You’re nearly as bad as Morrigan, you know?” Alistair grinned at her as they galloped away.

The Qunari shook his head, musing what strange people they were. Still, something in him had fluttered again at the sight of Iona’s smile. This unknown feeling was beginning to trouble him slightly.

  

* * *

 

“You look like you’re chewing lemons,” Morrigan said, flying close to him. The witch had elected against riding a horse, finding it more pleasant to shift into animal forms for travel ( _especially_ since Alistair had to carry her pack for her on top of his own); currently, she was a steely-eyed crow. Besides, as she had told them all, she had little interest as it was in being near a mangy mabari, and so a whinnying horse that snickered and reared held no appeal for her. Neither did the dung it left behind.

“It is nothing,” Sten said stubbornly.

“‘ _Nothing_ ,’ he says, while scowling and gritting his teeth,” the witch mused sarcastically, perching on his horse’s mane and looking up at him, digging in her claws for security. “You look like you could chew somebody’s head off.”

“I might if you get closer.”

She laughed, a low hollow sound that rang out mockingly around them. “And then where would we be? One mage alone, left to fend for herself while you and Alistair barely speak to each other?” He could have sworn she was raising an eyebrow at him… but crows didn’t have eyebrows.

“Would that not be a blessing for Iona? One less person to heal?”

“Is _this_ why you have no friends accompanying you? Were you not part of a military band? I do not see your soldiers flocking to your defence, or anywhere else for that matter.”

“They are dead,” he told her in a hollow voice. “I will not speak of them to you, swamp witch.”

“Is that meant to hurt me? I have been called worse and lived to tell the tale,” Morrigan chuckled before growing more serious. “You have my sympathies, truly, though I know it will do little.”

“Then you are wiser than most.”

“Ever the stoic, I see. Well, keep your secrets, then. Just don’t hide them from our Warden friend. Maker knows what she sees in you, but the girl _cares_ about you. That is a rare thing to find in this world, even more during a Blight.” The witch sniffed. “And you’re not exactly an easy companion, you know. More caged up than that prison in Lothering.”

“Is _that_ meant to hurt me?”

“And was that meant to be a joke? A poor attempt, but I will let it slide.” She gave him a firm look. “We have not known each other more than… ah, I lose track. A month? Two? No matter. Iona is a sweet enough girl, and I would not see her hurt on account of your recalcitrance. I could only guess how your wife would manage, if you even have one.”

“There is no marriage under the Qun,” Sten said, meeting her harsh gaze without flinching.

“A good thing at that. You are remarkably ill-suited for such an… entanglement.” The witch chuckled to herself, and Sten had to resist the urge to fling the crow at the nearest rock.

“Is there a point to this discussion?” he asked, glaring at the bird. Somehow, she managed to make a simple flap of her wings become a deeply disdainful shrug.

“The point? A very simple one,” Morrigan told him. “You could make sure you never so much as hurt a hair on her head… or you could become food for _real_ crows. They’d feast on you for a long time, I reckon.”

“Only if you managed to pose a threat to me,” the Qunari replied. “In your current form, it would be considerably less. Even without this trickery, I would crush you as easily as snapping a twig.”

“Not unless I pecked out your eyes or burnt you to a crisp.”

“And this is why the Qun pities mages,” Sten sighed. “They are never in control of themselves.”

The witch cawed at him angrily and flew away, clawing at his cheek as she did so. Morrigan did not flap too close to his face, perhaps fearing that he might make good on his threats, but she still managed to leave stinging cuts behind. They broke open into red ribbons, bleeding freely down his cheek; the witch’s claws had cut deeper than perhaps even _she_ had expected.

Sten cursed her, clutching his cheek and roaring in dismay as his fingers came away tinged with scarlet. He wiped the blood away on his horse’s mane and sighed.

 

* * *

 

As the witch flew ahead to wherever Alistair and Iona had fled to, he was left to brood on what she had said. Iona cared for him. Those were her words. Morrigan may have been about as friendly as your average viper seconds before the killing strike, but he could trust her on that point at least.

Besides, he had seen with his own eyes the little elf’s fumbling, shy attempts to get closer to him. To what end, he was unsure, but she was nothing if not persistent.

And then there was the matter of the strange emotion inside him that reared its head around her, the one he struggled to put his finger on. It was not one he was familiar with. He had cared for his brothers-in-arms, each one a _kadan_ , and yet he had not felt this odd feeling towards them.

Iona was not uncomely for an elf, Sten supposed, and there was still something that charmed him about her easy-going, playful nature, even if it stood in ugly contradiction to how he wanted her to act. How he _should_ want her to act, he corrected himself bitterly.

It was not even as if he could not enjoy her company. Lately he had found himself almost _longing_ for it, a fact that puzzled him almost as much as the little elf did herself. She was witty and irreverent, always curious to know more about him and his people just the same way as he was about Ferelden and society about the Qun. When it had not dissolved into misunderstandings, albeit ones that were resolved later, the two of them had managed to learn quite a good amount about their respective cultures.

Sten also admired her control over her magic. She had no _arvaarad_ to hold her back, even if he supposed Alistair may have kept an eye over her at times, and yet she was perfectly capable of resisting every temptation he had heard mages face. So was Morrigan, he admitted reluctantly, yet her magic was aggressive, attacking their enemies and leaving them writhing in pain and fear as they crumpled on the ground and screamed.

Iona was a healer, as befit her more gentle nature, but she was by no means unable to defend herself. She just simply preferred to heal, she had told him. She had barely even drunk from the little potion bottles and vials that the pair of them seemed to carry permanently on their person – _lyrium_ , Alistair had called it once, though he had forgotten now what it meant.

Perhaps that should have frightened him, the thought of her being a force of raw and seemingly unstoppable power, but she posed no threat. There was likely an explanation for it, some magical one that would have baffled him no doubt.

And Iona _cared_ about him. It brought a lightness to him, easing a weight he had been entirely oblivious to, yet only brought more anxiety shortly afterwards. _Why_ did she care about him? And did she also feel this strange feeling coursing through her, leaving her utterly bewildered at every step? Did she try to resist it, the way he had tried and failed several times over? Did a part of her not want to resist it, the way he didn’t want to either? And did she also have no clue what it was?

‘Do you delight in asking questions?’ she had asked him. These questions brought him no delight, though. Only a strange, painful feeling of searching fruitlessly for an answer.

Unless….

_Unless_ filled him with horror. It would be unspeakable, impossible, and utterly repugnant. _Unless_ would go against everything he stood for. _Unless_ was a deadly notion that now refused to leave his mind, clinging to him stubbornly the more he tried to shake it off.

Sten found a part of himself not wanting to. It whispered in his ear like a venomous serpent, summoning the same images he had seen play repeatedly in his dreams, haunting them in a never-ending cycle of forbidden thoughts that could never come to fruition. That should never see the light of day.

And yet there was something tempting in them, something that beckoned to him in sultry tones and gentle caresses. For a moment, the Qunari lost himself in the thought of Iona’s laugh, her gentle little smile that came so frequently in his company as she teased him over and over again. For a moment, he dared to hope of _more_.

He roared so loudly in frustration that his horse whinnied beneath him in fear. Cursing, Sten quietened the animal with soft whispers, thinking bitterly of how much he wanted to strangle the witch in her sleep. It was all her fault.

“ _Parshaara_!” he cried out angrily, wanting nothing more than to return to Seheron and escape the little elf forever.

In his restless state he would be no use to the party, Sten realised. His thoughts swirled in panic, and he could recall none of the calming prayers the _tamassrans_ had taught him. He could only bolt forwards, riding like thunder to where the others waited and stared at him.

Irving barked happily to see him, and Iona grinned as she saw him approach, giving him a cheerful wave that filled his belly with coiling dread. When he came closer, she gave him a concerned look, running to meet him, and he could barely resist the urge to flee.

“What’s wrong, Sten?” she asked, reaching out for him. He couldn’t repress a shudder, but luckily the little elf didn’t seem to notice. “You’re paler than snow. Are you sick?”

“It is the exertion of riding, nothing more,” he said, panting as convincingly as he could for extra measure. He could not let her know how wracked he was by his duelling thoughts.

She did not look convinced in the slightest, yet nodded anyway. “Well, the good news is we’ve reached Redcliffe. We’ll be able to find an inn to bed down in for the night, so you can rest there,” Iona smiled at him. He could only nod; guilt had wrapped itself around his tongue and robbed him of speech.

“Onwards, then!” Alistair cheered, urging his horse forwards. Laughing, Iona followed him and the two turned it into a race, whooping and giggling away.

Sten watched them as his stomach twisted and churned. The little elf would fare better with the boy. He would make her smile and laugh, and any union they might have would be sanctioned among their kind. It would be much better for them all round if he simply buried these toxic dreams deep inside him, nipping them at the bud before they could take root. He would distract himself in battle the way anyone in the _antaam_ might, losing himself in the bloodlust of battle, soaking himself in gore and carnage until the rage subsided, taking his desires with it.

Still, he could not stop jealousy rising in him like a snake at the thought of their union. _The boy is immature_ , he thought bitterly. _She is wise beyond her years, wiser than she cares to appear, and she can take command and demand their respect with ease. She is a leader, not just a friend_.

The thought of fraternisation did not bother him, which was in itself troubling. The whole _situation_ was troubling and unnatural, and he should not encourage it any more than he already had. _This has gone too far, and it will go no further_. _I will forget this one way or another_.

With jaw grimly set, Sten rode after them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Antaam** \- literally 'body'; a word for the Qunari army


	5. Chapter 5

The first thing they saw when they rode into Redcliffe together was…. _nothing_. There was no sound, no people, and no animals. It was as if they were all hiding underground somewhere… or gone.

“This doesn’t look great,” Alistair muttered as a man ran towards them from behind the gates, clearly alarmed by their arrival.

“What are you doing here? Haven’t you heard the news?” The man’s voice was more a bubble of fast and nervous sound than separate words, and it was only with great effort that the party deciphered what he was saying.

“ _What_ news?” Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Calm down and tell us. Let’s start with your name, at least.”

The man shakily gulped down a few breaths before continuing. “I’m Tomas. I’m part of the militia defending Redcliffe.”

“From what?”

“You really don’t know? No word got out at all?” Tomas looked utterly horrified.

“Just tell us.”

“We’re under siege by darkspawn _every single night_. And with the arl sick –”

“Eamon is _sick_?” It was Alistair’s turn to be alarmed.

“They sent out a force of men looking for the Urn of Sacred Ashes. It’s the only thing that’ll cure him, everyone says, but they haven’t come back at all. No word, just silence.” Tomas shrugged glumly. “I think they’ve died. I think they’ve all died, just like _we’re_ going to die _tonight_.”

“That’s an awful lot of dying,” Morrigan muttered dryly.

Alistair gave her a death glare before turning back to comfort the poor man, who was starting to tremble like a leaf. “Easy, now. We don’t mean any harm.”

“We’re here to help,” Iona said, offering him a comforting smile. “If we can sort out your darkspawn problem, maybe we can find a way to the castle and help the arl. We need men from him. Warden business,” she added.

“Men? We only have a token force here as it is. We’ll be overrun when those – those creatures turn up.”

“Then we’ll just have to stop that, won’t we?” Iona assured him with an easy grin. “With two Grey Wardens, two mages _and_ a Qunari at your side, you’ll be unstoppable.” When Irving whined, she chuckled and scratched between his ears. “And a mabari hound. Even better.”

“You would… do that for us?” Tomas seemed puzzled but relieved.

“A Grey Warden’s duty is to help and protect people,” she answered, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “Now, go and tell the people we’re here to assist you in any way we can. If there is somewhere we could perhaps rest in the meantime, that would also be appreciated.”

“You can stay in the inn.” Tomas was considerably more perked up than previously. “I’ll tell them right now, my lady. Maker bless your souls, all of you.” He scampered away through the gate, an unmistakeable skip in his step.

“Ah, that felt good,” Iona chuckled, stretching before following through. 

“We seem to dispense charity far more frequently than actually fighting monsters,” Morrigan sighed.

“Would you rather I left them to their fate?” Iona’s voice was quiet, but there was a warning tone to it as she turned around to face the other mage.

“It would be quicker and simpler, would it not? It is not our duty to help them.”

“It is not _yours_ , perhaps… but it is _mine_.” Her voice brooked no argument, and the other woman merely sighed, shaking her head as they continued walking.

Sten thought about it to himself. It was another thing he had come to admire about the little elf; she had an admirable commitment to her cause, and a sense of duty that flowed through her every action. She was utterly devoted to helping anyone in trouble who might pass them by, and he could recall hours of seemingly useless things they had done together, fetching or killing things or even just running around talking to people.

These little quests of hers would accomplish nothing in the long run, would not help their efforts against the Blight… but they had made these people feel gratitude, some of them even moved to tears. “Bless you,” they would always say, or things so similar it made little difference. They felt like they _mattered_ to someone in that moment, he realised, when their entire lives had gone unnoticed by anyone with any power.

Just like Iona herself.

Was it the mage in her that pressed her onwards, he wondered, desperately trying to turn the tide of suspicious public opinion, or the little alienage girl who felt frightened and alone, crying for the parents she had barely been given time to know?

Her sense of duty and perseverance would have got her great respect and admiration under the Qun, yet he had lied. He had been unable to tell her that as a _bas_ mage, she would not be a _saarebas_ , where she would be afforded pity, if little else. She would be force-fed _qamek_ to rot her mind, turning her into a lobotomised labourer who would work without thought or feeling until she died.

Iona would become as close to Tranquil as the Qun would allow, and he knew that was her personal nightmare above all others. To lose everything that made her _her_ , every little joke and smile and laugh, or every time she’d stopped them because she saw a pretty flower or butterfly or something else inconsequential that had made her so happy that Sten had had to hide his own joy…

To lose all of that would be like a waking death.

 _He_ didn’t want it for her, Sten realised with a start, and was frightened once more. These questions, these brief thoughts of sedition, were _dangerous_. He was wracked to his very core all because of a little elf mage who had extended him the same easy kindness she showed everyone else.

“Let’s rest here a moment,” Iona said, jolting him back to alertness. He realised they had reached the inn; he had been so lost in thoughts that she could have lead him over hot coals and he would have followed, unthinking and uncaring.

“I may need a drink,” he said gruffly, which only made her chuckle.

“Go easy on it, alright? We need to be in our best shape for tonight. None of us can afford to be drunk and stumbling in the battle, but I suppose we’ll have a chance to drink and rest properly afterwards.”

With a smile, Iona stepped through the door and held it open for him, and Sten realised he was well and truly lost.

 

* * *

 

The first thing he noticed about the inn was how empty it seemed. _This is a village full of hiding mice_ , Sten thought as he looked around. A few men were sitting in the back, looking slightly worse for wear as they moaned and grumbled amongst themselves, and an elf sat close to the door, clearly pretending he wasn’t watching the party while making mental notes about them quickly. A buxom woman was tending to the floor, sweeping idly while the bartender watched her with a lecherous leer. _Charming all around_.

He wanted to deal with the spy first, but Iona didn’t seem to have noticed his presence. Instead, she smiled and gestured to the bartender.

“Why don’t we stock up on supplies? I’ll see if he has any poultices or the like.” Cheerfully, she wandered over with Morrigan and Alistair in tow and began haggling for her prices in a firm, vaguely threatening but smiley way like any skilled fishwife; she had clearly picked up the knack from Morrigan’s no-nonsense attitude.

“Who do you report to?” Sten asked the elf, keeping his voice to a whispered monotone. The spy jumped in alarm, looking at him in dismay.

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m just waiting for my brother,” he stammered out, but as Sten shook his head he fell silent, chewing his lip.

“I can see from the way you’re twitching,” the Qunari said, giving him a firm look. “Anyone with legitimate business here wouldn’t be cowering in the corner like a kicked puppy. And any spy would come up with a far better cover story than that garbage.”

Perhaps it was the low rumble of his voice growing steadily more aggressive, or simply his imposing height; either way, the spy quailed and answered him beseechingly.

“Look, I was recruited by a… a tall man who reports to Arl Howe.”

Before he could say anything more, Iona re-emerged, stuffing bottles into her knapsack while joking with Alistair. “What’s going on?” she asked, smile dropping as she noticed the frosty atmosphere.

“The elf was acting suspiciously,” Sten explained dourly. “He’s a spy.”

“A spy? How could you tell?”

“First, because he just _admitted_ so,” he sighed, “and secondly, he’s extremely nervous.”

“Probably because you’re _making_ him!” she argued, tutting as she turned back to her fellow elf. “Please excuse my companion, he’s not so used to being… well, _companionable_.” Iona offered him an easy smile. “What’s your name, friend?”

“Berwick,” he told her, smiling uncertainly as he looked between the two, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Look, I don’t mean any harm – ”

“I believe you,” she beamed at him, “but we really need to set a few things straight. Why are you here?”

“I’m waiting for my brother, as I just told your lumbering henchman over there!”

 A barely perceptible frown passed over Iona’s face, quickly smoothed over by a winsome look. “And where might this brother be now, then?”

“Ah, well he was just… he just…” Berwick trailed off, forgetting his cover story.

She patted his arm comfortingly. “Take your time, Berwick.”

“He’s right.” Shifting glumly in his seat, he refused to make further eye contact, gazing deep into his lap. “I’m here because a tall man told me to be. Reports to Arl Howe, that’s all I know. He wanted me to learn about the castle, but all I could tell him was about Eamon getting sick. It’s infested with those…. _things_ up there.” Berwick shuddered. “So after it was overrun, I hid up here, and I haven’t been able to leave since.”

“You poor thing.” Iona perched on the table beside him, wrapping an arm around him and giving him a brief hug. “You must have been so worried. Nowhere to go, nobody to talk to lest you blow your cover… You’ve built the perfect prison!”

When she chuckled heartily, he joined in with slightly less nerves than before, seeming to warm up around her. “I suppose I was at that. It was… lonely, at times.”

“Oh, I can imagine. I grew up in one of the loneliest places in the world. The only thing that stops you going mad is the thought of something better, isn’t it?” She gave his shoulder a squeeze, lingering ever so slightly longer than might have been appropriate. “Do you have any family? _Real_ family, I mean, and not just some made-up brother. Maybe a girl waiting somewhere? Maybe a boy, even? Or maybe you’re just alone for the meantime, hmm?” Her fingers brushed against the back of his neck, cool and light, and his mouth dropped open.

He wasn’t hearing things, Sten realised. There was a definite lilt in Iona’s voice, a seductive purr creeping in that made Berwick tremble, but the elf couldn’t take his eyes off her. Alistair and Morrigan were similarly shocked, standing in silence as they watched the mage seduce a perfect stranger.

“I… might be.” His voice was hoarse as she softly stroked the point of his ear, and he was redder than an apple, clumsily reaching out to grasp her waist with a shaking hand. Sten knew enough about elves to realise the ear-tips were extremely sensitive for them; Iona’s unfortunate experiences with low-hanging branches had taught him that many times over.

“What a shame.” Iona shuffled a little closer to him. “Are you going to fight in the battle tonight?” Her fingers were still lingering about the tip of his ear, and the poor elf was like putty as she moved.

“I… don’t have anything… better to do.” Berwick was growing choked up. It was almost embarrassing to watch.

“And so if I fought in the battle, would you fight alongside me to defend the villagers here?” she purred soothingly.

He nodded, scarcely able to speak. “ _Yes_ ,” he whispered.

“Then go and arm yourself with the rest of the militia. I’ll find you once it’s over.” She pressed a quick kiss to his forehead before nudging him away. The spy left eagerly, goofy grin plastered to his face as he turned back to gaze at her one last time, nearly walking into the door on his way out.

 

* * *

 

“What on earth was _that_ about?” Alistair asked, dumbfounded. Iona straightened up and laughed.

“Look what I stole off our tongue-tied friend here,” she grinned, waving a stack of papers in her other hand. They had all been so distracted looking at her flirting that they had failed to notice her other hand slip into his pocket and grab the files; then again, so had the tongue-tied friend.

“Are those his orders?” Sten looked at them suspiciously.

“Among other things. False identity papers, notes… spy things.” Iona tossed them into the fire.

“Why did you do that? He could pose a threat now,” the Qunari chided her, to which she only shook her head.

“Without his vital documents? He won’t get very far at all. That’s supposing he even survives the night,” she added with a callous shrug.

“You’re not going to bed the spy after all, I hope,” Morrigan said with arch disapproval.

“Who knows?” Iona looked at the floor. “I’ll never see him again. Besides, the one I _would_ doesn’t think the same way.”

“Oho! Who might that be? Someone in the Circle, maybe?” Alistair teased, which only made her giggle.

“Perhaps,” she smiled, shaking her head. “I couldn’t possibly say. These lips are well and truly _sealed_.” She pursed them for emphasis. “Now, let’s go and see what _they’re_ so unhappy over,” Iona said, pointing at the grumbling men in the corner.

Sten felt a lurch in his stomach as he watched her walk away, easing her way into their conversation. He hadn’t realised how truly jealous he’d been until she had admitted it was all a hoax… or _mostly_ , at least; he was still wary at the thought of her bedding a spy, a man she barely knew who might easily kill her in her sleep. It had been the thought of losing her, however briefly, that really stung, as well as how easily she had slipped into the role of a lying spy herself.

 _The one I would doesn’t think the same way_. That could have meant _anything_ , or _anyone_. It could even have been _Morrigan_ for all he knew, though Sten couldn’t believe it; the two were perfectly cordial, but there was no hint of anything more between them. She had assured him she felt nothing of the sort towards Alistair, and her bond with Leliana was equally platonic… so that didn’t leave anyone else he knew of. Most likely someone they had chanced over briefly in a town or such, someone she pined over and would never meet again.

Sullenly shrugging off the thought, Sten made his way over to the table and listened to her enthralling the men with a tall tale, all the while wishing he could lose himself in his cups. It was a bitter pill he had to swallow, the reality that she would never think the same way about him… but perhaps alcohol would ease the sting.

 _After the battle_ , he promised himself. He just had to calm the swirling vipers’ nest until then.


	6. Chapter 6

“So, you’re irritated because he won’t… what, give you a discount?” Iona seemed perplexed.

“That tight-fisted bastard wouldn’t know the meaning of the word,” her nearest companion grumbled. “He’s overcharging us as it is.”

It turned out that Lloyd, the innkeeper, was a fairly curmudgeonly man – at least, according to the totally unbiased drunkards in front of her – and was refusing to stint on his lofty prices, even though the men were all forming part of the militia for the coming battle. Alistair had whispered to her that perhaps persuading him to back down might help boost morale, leading them to fight better, but Iona wasn’t so sure.

“If they’re in their cups, they won’t be able to even see the ground beneath their feet, let alone fight,” she’d told him, and the templar had only shrugged.

“We do not need to solve the problems of every person we come across,” Sten reminded her. “This is a needless waste of time and energy.”

“For once, I agree with him,” Morrigan chuckled. “Who’d have thought? But he speaks the truth in this: is this not a diversion from the Blight?”

“We all need a hobby every now and then,” Iona shrugged, adding with a teasing smile, “Mine just happens to be chasing the warm fuzzy glow I get from acts of altruism.”

“I despair of you,” her fellow mage grumbled, throwing up her hands as the elf laughed.

“Is it really so bad? I’m trying to _help_ people, you know. You make it sound like… I don’t know, some kind of sin.” She feigned a look of utter despair.

The witch sighed. “Always theatrics with you, isn’t it? Honestly, if I didn’t know you were penned up in the Circle all your life, I’d suspect you came from a troupe of mummers. _Bad_ ones.”

“You wound me sometimes, Morrigan.”

“Only sometimes? I shall have to do better than that.”

 

* * *

 

After a brief argument where she threatened to turn the innkeeper into a toad, Lloyd cowed surprisingly easily, agreeing not only to give the militia free drinks but also to _join_ them in the battle. He left in a hurry, almost running in his haste to escape Iona, who had to repress an amused smile.

“Do people actually believe that?” Iona whispered quizzically to Morrigan, raising an eyebrow. “Do people actually think we just go around turning people into small, slimy creatures?”

“Only the gullible…. and wise,” the witch replied, gesturing menacingly to the staff strapped to her back with a thin smile.

“Thank you for that back there,” came a voice from behind her. Iona turned around to see a woman approaching them, the same one that had been sweeping the floor moments earlier. “I’m Bella,” she said by way of introduction. “I work as a waitress here… or try to, at least.”

“Try to?” Iona was puzzled.

“When Lloyd isn’t groping me,” Bella said bluntly. “I have nowhere else to go, so I…” She sighed. “There’s not much I can do or say. If I really kicked up a fuss, I’d be out on my arse in the middle of nowhere, and my coin wouldn’t last for long. That’s if I wasn’t robbed, anyway.”

“Is there no family you could turn to? Relatives? Friends?”

“If there was, do you really think I’d still be stuck here putting up with that lout?” Bella replied, putting a hand on her hip.

“I suppose not,” Iona admitted. She thought for a moment before continuing, “What if you had enough money to escape? What would you do then?”

“You’d need an awful lot before I even stood a chance,” Bella chuckled, shaking her head. “Then I’d get on the first wagon going to Denerim and not look back. I’d set up my own tavern there.”

“Would five sovereigns cover it, do you think?” As Bella stood there in silence, too stunned to reply, Iona pulled out her coin pouch, plucked out five gold coins and handed them over to her.

“… _Five_?” She counted them herself, looking at them in a daze, barely registering them as she slid them quickly into her pocket. Then Bella grinned at her, whooping for joy. “Maker’s breath, you’re an _angel_! However can I repay you?”

Iona shrugged good-naturedly, smiling in return. “I’m a Warden. It’s what I do.”

The other woman hugged her tightly. “I could just _kiss_ you!” she squealed, utterly overjoyed.

Iona laughed. “You could,” she admitted, “but then I haven’t even fought in the battle yet. Are you sure I’ve really earnt it?” she added teasingly.

“Oh, you’ve earnt it ten times over. You’ve just saved my life.” Before Iona had a chance to so much as blink, Bella kissed her.

All she could register was how soft and warm it felt before Bella pulled away, grinning widely at her as she blinked dazedly before smiling back.

“So, what do I get for saving the town, then?” Iona asked.

The other woman chuckled. “You’re a right laugh! Don’t get so cheeky!”

“I think we’re done here,” Sten interrupted stiffly.

“Alright, alright. Don’t get such a stick up your arse, Sten,” Iona teased, shaking her head as she turned back to face Bella. “Warden business calls, I’m afraid. That, and a grumpy Qunari.”

“Fight well,” Bella said in earnest.

“Just make sure you don’t linger too long after the battle,” Iona replied. “At the first chance you get, just get out of Redcliffe. Go to Denerim, or… or anywhere else. There’s nothing for you here, I promise.”

“Thank you, Warden.” Bella waved as they left.

“Really, what’s gotten into you lately?” Iona whispered to him once the door swung shut. “You’re not acting yourself. If you’re still tired out, you should just book a room and sleep it off until the evening.”

“I am _not_ tired,” he said firmly, glaring at her.

“Alright, so you’re not tired. I guess I’m not a Warden, then.”

“Oh Maker,” Alistair groaned, “will you two ever stop bickering?”

“Either kiss or be done with it, but this to-and-fro serves nobody,” Morrigan agreed.

“ _Kiss_?” Iona gasped, reddening.

“That would be highly inappropriate,” Sten retorted. Neither of them could quite look at the other.

Morrigan sighed. “Fine. Have it your way. Maybe the darkspawn will sort some sense into the pair of you tonight.”  

As they walked on into the centre of town, Iona was struck by the thought of her and Sten together. She wanted nothing more than for him to hold her, to kiss her, even to _bed_ her (if she was being brutally honest), and yet it would not come to pass.

He was a Qunari, for one thing; most likely he would be uninterested in elves, or women of another species full stop. Sten was also older than her by at least ten years, Iona reckoned, and so he probably found her infuriatingly juvenile. He also wasn’t technically _wrong_ about fraternisation, even if he wasn’t a Warden himself: if they really _were_ lovers – and she couldn’t help blushing at the thought – would the rest of her party see it as an unfair advantage, or perhaps even favouritism? Would they begin to resent her?

And wasn’t it also just a huge distraction from her duties as a Warden? If it came down to a decision between saving Sten and ending the Blight, would she truly be able to make up her mind?

 _The Maker smiles sadly on his Grey Wardens, so the Chantry says, as no sacrifice is greater than theirs._ But if Sten was the sacrifice she would have to make, it sat uneasily in her stomach.

 _I don’t know what I’m doing_ , she admitted to herself. _Maker be my guide, and if this union would not be offending to Your eyes, Andraste bless this love_. Iona’s prayer had no response from the heavens; only a gnawing pit of anxiety that churned in her stomach.

She looked up to the Qunari next to her. Sten was resolutely avoiding her gaze, even leaving a greater distance between them than normal when they walked side by side.

“I’m sorry, Sten,” Iona murmured, not knowing what she was apologising for.

“ _Parshaara_!” he snapped at her, jaw clenching. “I am not some toy for their amusement. Do not seek to insult me further.”

“But I – ”

She did not continue, lowering her eyes to meet the ground. She wondered if perhaps the giant was disappointed, as she felt him look at her for the briefest moment.

When Iona looked up to him again, Sten was staring straight ahead, jaw so tight that she worried it might pop. His hands were balled into fists at his side, knuckles left whiter than bone.

 _I love you_ , Iona thought glumly. _I’m sorry_.

There was nothing left to say for the time being.


	7. Chapter 7

“You dealt with Lloyd already?” Murdock gave them impressed looks. “The Maker’s smile grows ever wider with your arrival, it seems.”

The party had not been formally introduced to the mayor beforehand, having made their way over to the inn as a matter of priority. Murdock had taken it in his stride luckily, seeming even amused.

“One less thing for you to worry about, then,” he chuckled. “You’ve raised the men’s morale a bit with those drinks, too. All that’s left is for you to convince our blacksmith Owen to prepare some weapons for our men, and maybe even get Dwyn to join the militia. He’s a fine fighter, that one, but I swear he’s more stubborn than a mule.”

“We’ll deal with it,” Iona promised him.

“Good. After that you should talk to Ser Perth once everything is set up. In the meantime, you’ll find Bann Teagan in the Chantry tending to the women, children and the elderly.”

“These people do not fight?” Sten asked, puzzled.

“Of course not!” Murdock looked shocked. “It may be a grim fight ahead, but we’re not _cruel_.”

“Under the Qun, all would fight to defend themselves,” Sten said. “Women, children, the elderly… Anyone old and fit enough to swing a blade. Even if not, they would do more than cower like penned sheep.”

The mayor looked insulted. “You ox-men are _barbaric_ ,” he spat out. “We’re not monsters in Ferelden.” Then he turned back to Iona. “Unless you and your friend have any more smart comments to throw my way, I suggest you move on.”

“Let’s leave, Sten,” Iona urged, touching his arm.

The Qunari shrugged her off irritably. “I only spoke the truth,” he said as they left Murdock behind, who glared at them.

“But did you really have to sound so combative about it? The people here are _frightened_ , Sten.” Lowering her voice to continue, Iona whispered, “A lot of them are probably going to die tonight. Slaughtered by _monsters_. Do you think now is really the best time to start a ‘My way is better’ contest?”

“I was doing no such thing.”

“Perhaps not intentionally.” She sighed. “Look, just leave the negotiating and talking to me or Alistair. You’ll only make it worse.” Iona clapped a hand over her mouth, squeaking. “Oh Sten, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean – ”

“You spoke the truth,” the Qunari said firmly, though his brow was more furrowed now. “I am no negotiator. I am a soldier, a Sten of the Beresaad, and it is not my job. It is _yours_.” He still looked slightly stung though, and Iona reached out to him once more.

“I’m sorry,” she said earnestly, looking up at him. He didn’t shake her away, which she took for a good sign. “Once this battle is over, we can go back to the tavern and get drinks together.” Iona gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ve got something important I need to tell you,” she whispered, turning away before he could see her growing blush.

“I also wish to talk to you.” Sten said it as sardonically as ever, yet it made her heart skip a beat.

“Only _good_ news, I hope,” she teased, trying to hide her hope and excitement.

Her only response was a grunt, but it was still so much better than anything she could have expected from him. _This_ , at least, she could work with; it would get her through the battle, which she thought of only with mounting dread.

 _Afterwards, who knows_? The worst he could do was simply say, ‘No,’ after all. It would sting, of course, but she had a Blight to deal with. There would be a thousand different ways to move past any pain that might arise.

As for any joy? Well, there would be a thousand ways to deal with that too, Iona thought, smiling to herself.

 

* * *

 

The Chantry was filled with sounds of weeping. Mothers hushed their children, but it was little use; most of them were crying themselves. Families huddled together, old and young alike staying as close as they could and offering prayers to the Maker with trembling voices.

“These poor people are terrified,” Iona whispered to Alistair, who nodded grimly.

“We can’t help all of them, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Morrigan said, shaking her head. “There’s far too many.” For a moment, her voice caught; she hid it behind a cough.

“She’s right,” Iona admitted reluctantly. “There’s hundreds of them packed in here. Even if we had the money, we don’t have the time between now and nightfall.”

It weighed on her, Sten saw. He knew her instinctive response would be to run and offer even the slightest assistance she could to them all, but it was a naïve hope. _The fact she cares is enough_.

Not for the first time, he wondered how she would have fared as a _tamassran_. Iona was good enough at dishing out commands and care in equal measure, but he worried sometimes her gentler side left her vulnerable at a time like this. She could not help every suffering person they came across, and the guilt would always fester in her gut worse than a crossbow’s bolt.

“Do not chide yourself,” Sten told her. “We will do what we can. They would not blame you for doing less, and they will be grateful enough for what you can offer.”

“Thank you.” Iona smiled at him, and he was reassured.

  

* * *

 

The bann was glad enough to meet them once Iona explained they were no mere refugees, but here to assist with the relief effort.

“Truth be told, we couldn’t handle any more starving mouths and bellies,” Teagan admitted.

“Once we’ve dealt with the darkspawn tonight and got access to the castle, we’ll be out of your hair,” Iona promised him. “Though a warm bed and a bowl of soup wouldn’t hurt later,” she added with a grin.

“If you survive those fiends, you will all be amply rewarded, I assure you.” The bann was almost as nervous as his people, she realised, but was doing his best to hide it.

“ _If_ , you say?” she laughed. “Have faith, Teagan. We will provide the support your men need and return unscathed. Well, bruised maybe, but what’s that to a Grey Warden?” She continued in a softer tone, “I made a promise to help your people however I could. I intend to keep it.”

“You are an honourable woman,” he said, bowing before her. “If we had met under better circumstances, I would have been glad to enjoy your company longer.”

“Honourable, perhaps…. but a little pressed for time, I’m afraid,” Iona said apologetically. “We’ll do what we can to help with morale and preparations between now and dusk, but we also need to ready ourselves.”

“Of course. My apologies, Warden.”

“Oh please, call me Iona.” She chuckled. “I’ll be shedding darkspawn blood before your eyes as it is. We don’t need to stand on ceremony. I’m no noble, just a mage. And an elf at that.”

“You have my thanks, Iona… and my admiration. May the Maker guide your steps tonight.”

“And may He bring you and your people some comfort in the Chantry as well.” With a final exchanged bow, Iona left the bann behind.

“Do all in Ferelden worship this god, then?” Sten asked her quietly, observing the Chantry with great interest.

“Well, I can’t speak for _everyone_ , but I’d say he’s doing pretty well in the popularity table.” At her companion’s stony silence, Iona sighed. “It was a _joke_ , Sten. Maybe a bad one, but would it hurt you to laugh?”

“I will laugh when you amuse me.”

“That’s fair.”

  

* * *

 

“Please, Wardens! Would you wait a moment?”

“Could you give this to my son? I know it would make the night pass more easily for him while he’s fighting out there.”

“I think I’m going to die tonight…”

“Wardens, if I could beg a moment of your time – ”

“The Maker heard my prayers! Brave Wardens, _please_ – ”

“Help me! Maker have mercy! I beg you – ”

The party was swamped with voices from both sides, calling out to them and pleading as they walked past. Some said nothing, but made painful whimpers and moans as they clutched their stomachs, or burst into tears again.

“They are so frightened,” Iona murmured, looking close to tears herself. “Is there really nothing we can do for them?”

“The best we can do is fight well enough tonight that they won’t need our help tomorrow,” Alistair told her, giving her a friendly pat on the shoulder. “And we’re not so bad at that, right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Besides, isn’t that what we do? Ah, _there’s_ a smile! Good. I worried you’d forgotten how.”

“Not with you around,” Iona teased.

“You wicked minx. We’re in a _Chantry_.” Still, Alistair looked like the cat that ate the canary with a wide grin plastered to his face.

“Excuse me, I’m so sorry to bother you.” A quiet voice called out from by the door; one that belonged to a woman intently staring at the ground. They had been just about to leave the Chantry itself, but the poor girl had seized the moment to ask for their help.

Sten inwardly winced. Iona would have a very difficult time turning down a direct plea for assistance – she had a chronic need to help, he had noticed, and it seemed to be written on her forehead like a shining beacon for all of Thedas to recognise. They wouldn’t even have _noticed_ the girl if she’d so much as coughed. He moved closer to Iona out of reflex, ready to defend her.

“My younger brother is missing. I’m worried sick, but I can’t leave the Chantry to go and search for him. The bann’s orders were that we stay put and don’t move until…” She trailed off.

“Where did you last see him? Do you know where he might have gone?” Iona asked.

“He probably ran back to our house. My parents passed away a while ago, and so I have to care for him now. All of the talk about battles and darkspawn probably spooked him.” The girl wiped her eyes, though they glistened with unshed tears.

“I’ll tell you what. We can briefly look around your house and if we find your brother, we’ll send him back to the Chantry.” She smiled. “I’m Iona, by the way.”

“My name’s Kaitlyn.” The girl laughed. “I should have said that first thing, shouldn’t I? My little brother’s name is Bevin. If you find him, please don’t tell him off – he’s just frightened and confused.”

“I promise. Stay safe, Kaitlyn.” Iona reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze as they left.

 

* * *

 

“You handled that well,” Sten said approvingly.

“What do you mean?”

“You did not allow yourself to feel guilt over the people begging you for aid, even though we cannot reasonably assist them all. And you still managed to help someone in the end without getting flustered.” There was a brief hint of a smile on his face before it quickly disappeared, but Iona noticed.

“You were worried about me, weren’t you?” She smiled shyly back at him. “Don’t worry, Sten. I’m not going to lose my head any time soon.”

“I suspect you would be the likeliest to keep it.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Iona teased, though her blush betrayed the truth.

“I do not believe that is the case.”

“That’s true. You’re doing quite well, actually.”

“Is this what you wanted to discuss later tonight?” Sten asked her.

“No, of course not!” she laughed, growing even redder. “Wait, you’re telling a joke, aren’t you?”

“I am doing no such thing.”

“You _are_! You liar!” Iona couldn’t help giggling. “You’re just trying to embarrass me, aren’t you? Well, it’s your lucky day, I guess.”

“Why should I wish to embarrass you?” The corner of his mouth quirked for a second.

“Because you’re good at it? I don’t know.” She sighed for a moment before perking up. “So, what did _you_ want to discuss later tonight, then?” There was a mischievous glint in her eye.

“This is a waste of time. We should move on.”

“ _Now_ who’s embarrassed, huh? Is that a blush I see?” Iona collapsed into a fit of laughter while her companion pursed his lips and resolutely avoided any kind of eye contact whatsoever. His cheeks were ever so slightly redder than normal.

“They’re so sweet together when they get along, don’t you think?” Alistair mused to Morrigan with a grin.

“Only until they start bickering again,” the witch replied with a smirk.

“Hush, you! Don’t curse us!”


	8. Chapter 8

The rest of the day seemed to pass almost in a blur of activity, bustling from one place to another. They found the blacksmith, Owen, stinking of alcohol and immediately suspicious of their business with him (not helped, perhaps, by Iona’s impatience at the man for barring his door and refusing to let them in for a long time). Drawing out the story of his grief over his daughter being trapped in the castle seemed to soften him somehow, and with Iona’s hasty promise of saving her, he not only agreed to forge quality gear for the militia but equally to gift the party some other equipment he had lying around.

Dwyn was far easier to convince than the blacksmith, though even more surly. The dwarf had glowered at them as they entered – as did many others in Redcliffe, Sten noticed – but Iona had somehow managed to calm him down, offering him promises of handsome rewards should he agree to take part in the battle. Gold, it seems, was the real factor in ending an argument… ignoring the fact that the party didn’t have as much as Iona had promised him.

“Teagan will figure out some kind of reward for him,” she told Sten by way of reassurance when the Qunari had wrinkled his brow at her. “ _We’re_ not the ones personally thanking him, are we?”

“You are very relaxed about the truth.”

Iona shrugged nonchalantly. “It happens from time to time. A little white lie never hurt anyone, right? He’ll get a reward either way, just not from me. Besides, it _helped_ us and everyone else.”

She managed to find barrels of oil stacked away in an abandoned shop after suggesting they look around to find anything else that may have been of use, and Alistair and Sten had been resigned to carrying them up the hill for Ser Perth’s inspection. The knight waited by the windmill, knowing the darkspawn would start their attack in a charge down the hill.

Morrigan chuckled to Iona as they watched the two men carry the barrels up; Alistair was slightly wincing under the weight while Sten hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“It makes them stay quiet for a while, no? Perhaps we should make them carry things more often,” she whispered.

“They’re not pack mules!” Iona began to protest before breaking out into laughter. “You’re _horrible_!” she giggled.

The witch laughed. “I never claimed to be the picture of innocence,” Morrigan said dryly. 

 

* * *

 

“I don’t think there’s anything left for us to do now, right?” Iona asked, running through a mental list. _Dwyn, Owen, oil barrels, those medals, Bevin…_

They had managed to find the little boy nestled in a cupboard in Kaitlyn’s home, clearly unsettled by everything that had happened around him. Iona had found their grandfather’s sword hidden away in the course of searching for him, and paid Kaitlyn five sovereigns in exchange.

She hoped the young woman would be able to find a better life with it perhaps, the same way she hoped Bella could start a new life in Denerim. Not for the first time, Iona worried that she had just put them at great risk by offering them so much money at once and felt a familiar pang of guilt.

“I do not understand the point of those medals you gave the men,” Sten grumbled.

“The ones the Revered Mother blessed?” She paused. “Well, it was for morale mostly. Make them feel a little more secure and protected.”

“Yet your priest said it will give them no protection.”

“Of course not. A medal on its own is about as useful as… as nipples on a breastplate. It’s not going to do anything.” Iona chuckled for a moment as her companion wrinkled his nose in distaste. “It’s all about how they _feel_ protected, though. That’s the main thing. Do you see now?”

“No. It is a lie.”

Iona sighed. “A _white_ lie, Sten. I’m not hurting anybody.”

“Yet if they act foolhardy in the battle in the name of false protection, they _will_ be hurt.”

“They’re not stupid, Sten, and neither am I. You don’t need to question every order or decision I make, you know.” Iona crossed her arms and gave him a look.

“My apologies, Warden.” Sten gave her a quick bow of contrition.

“Sten.” She gave him a pleading look. “ _Iona_. My name is _Iona_.”

“I…” Sten paused, looking at her beseechingly. His hand hovered in mid-air, wavering between reaching out and dropping it. “Iona, I cannot afford to – ”

Whatever he might have told her would remain a mystery. Alistair tapped her on the shoulder, grinning as he stretched and fought a yawn. “Now we’re done running around after everyone else for a little bit, can we practise sparring for tonight?”

“That would be for the best.” Now the Qunari was back to his stubborn self, hand resolutely balled into a fist by his side.

“Alistair can practise with Morrigan,” Iona suggested quickly before he could continue. “Morrigan needs to work on good barrier and offensive spells, and Alistair needs to understand how to fight with them,” she explained as the two looked struck before giving each other testy glances. “I can practise healing and defensive spells with Sten.”

“Very well,” Sten said solemnly, as if she had just offered him his own death sentence.

“You _can_ lighten up, hmm? You act as if I’m offending you,” Iona murmured to him as they moved further away from Alistair and Morrigan, who were exchanging petty barbs as they readied themselves.

“You are not offending me, Iona.”

“Then what’s with this sudden grumpiness? Do you just not want to work with me, is that it?” Her voice came out more shrilly than she intended as she fought to contain it in a whisper.

“Of course I wish to.” She waited for him to continue, but Sten simply raised his sword and gave her an expectant look.

“You Qunari will be the death of me,” Iona muttered irritably.

“There is only one of me,” he told her, looking vaguely amused.

“More’s the pity.”

 

* * *

 

The soldiers under Ser Perth had managed to find training dummies for Sten and Alistair while they practised amongst themselves, and so the two men hacked and slashed at the rudimentary figures while the mages kept watch. Morrigan was imbuing Alistair’s sword with fire and heat, keeping it under careful control so that the dummy would not catch fire, yet there were still trails of scorch marks where the templar had thrust the blade a little too closely.

Iona had cast a protective glyph under Sten as he held his sword in both hands and slashed forwards in a slow-moving arc. Sustaining the glyph was more tiring than she had expected, and so she felt grateful for the chance to practice.

There were other things to be grateful for as well. Sten was moving nimbly, cutting forwards in fluid motions, acting as if the greatsword was simply an extension of his own body. He danced with it, shifting position and leaping to the side as if escaping an enemy’s thrust while ducking and sliding his sword from below in between their ribs. With each slash of the sword, he let out a grunt of exertion, and his armour sometimes clinked from the force of his movements.

It was far more elegant than anything Iona had expected, though she assumed it would be very different in the battle itself. It was easy to move with little difficulty when your enemies were imaginary; in the thick of it, surrounded by crazed darkspawn hellbent on giving you a messy, long death, it was a very different matter. Sten would charge at them, swinging his sword in wide arcs that could fell many at once, slicing through them in quick, deep thrusts that left their rotten entrails falling out from under their shuddering steps; there was nothing pretty about watching those fights, only a thrill of fear as Iona desperately tried to keep up her magic around him.

_Is he showing off for my benefit?_ She wondered. He had a dour look on his face, grumpy as ever, yet she couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was somehow watching her out of the corner of his eye, expecting some kind of reaction; _what_ kind she couldn’t possibly fathom.

“How about we change things a little?” she called out to him, letting the glyph slowly seep away and disintegrate. The Qunari looked at his feet in a daze briefly before looking up.

“How so?”

“You could fight me instead. It would be a way for me to practise the kind of spells I don’t normally get to,” Iona said with a smile.

“Fight… you? But you have no weapon.” Sten gave her an uncertain look.

She tapped her staff. “I do, but I won’t be fighting with it exactly. You’ll have to fight against whatever I conjure up.”

“Are you sure this is safe?” He looked afraid, eyes darting between her and the staff.

“Sten.” She moved closer to him, reaching out a hand. “I would never hurt you, I promise.” Iona held his hand tightly, and he hissed in surprise as he felt her magic flow through him.

It was… odd, but not uncomfortable after Sten recovered from the initial shock. The glyphs were different, more distant and ignorable, but whatever she had cast he could feel slowly inching its way across his body, trailing waves of energy and bathing him briefly in a hazy blue glow.

“There you go.” Iona moved a few feet away again, adjusting her stance. “I just gave you a protective spell. None of my magic will be able to permeate your skin or wound you in any way, but it might feel… a little strange, perhaps.”

“Stranger than this?” Sten asked, raising an eyebrow.

She couldn’t help laughing a little. “I suppose you have a point. But it shouldn’t _hurt_ at least.”

From her belt, Iona drew out a small dagger, gripping it in one hand while she opened the palm of the other, bathing herself in the same blue light that had flickered over Sten moments ago. “And that makes us even.”

 

* * *

 

Sten nodded to her, readying his sword. The little elf was so small and willowy that even with whatever spell she had cast over herself at play, he feared he could easily make mincemeat out of her with just one strike.

Ensuring her staff was strapped to her back securely, Iona raised her open palm at him and sent out a ball of flame squarely aimed at his chest. It was a ticklish sensation, a warmth he could just about feel but not strong enough to cause any discomfort. He supposed that was the magic, too; it dampened the effects of whatever she cast and clung to his body like a thick blanket.

Luckily it didn’t hinder his movement, so Sten gripped the sword firmly and charged at her. He feinted to the left and swung at her right, but Iona managed to nimbly roll out of the way seconds before it hit her shoulder, sending a lightning bolt in his direction as Iona leapt back to her feet. She even managed a tentative strike with her dagger before leaping out of the way of another blow, though not quick enough this time.

The magic absorbed most of the force, yet she still winced as it made contact with her waist. For a moment, Sten was concerned, darting forward to wrap a protective arm about her and steadying her.

“ _Kadan_?” he murmured, eyes wide. “Have I hurt you? Are you alright?”

She nodded through gritted teeth. “Just fine,” Iona hissed out. “It doesn’t hurt so much really, it’s just…” She trailed off, breathing in as she got her balance back.

“We can always call this off. It is clear you know how to defend yourself in melee combat, and I do not wish to cause you harm before tonight.” Sten let his arm fall hesitantly, looking over her with concern.

“You’ll have to try a lot harder, then.” Grinning, Iona darted forwards and struck her dagger into his chest while kicking hard into his stomach.

With a grunt of pain, Sten fell backwards, cursing from the impact. Her barrier had made the dagger simply glance off his armour, yet he had felt the force of her thrust and kick all the same.

“ _Vashedan_ ,” he groaned as Iona leapt onto his stomach to prevent him moving, laying the point of her dagger at his throat.

“I win,” she whispered, leaning closer as the dagger pricked him.

“You cheated,” Sten complained, glaring at her.

She laughed, shaking her head. “No I didn’t! I _was_ hurt, briefly. Then I just seized the opportunity in front of me. You don’t think the darkspawn will fight honourably, do you?”

“You… have a point.” He grunted, trying to shift his weight from underneath her, but Iona was steadfast. She was inches away from him, he realised suddenly with a start.

“What does _kadan_ mean?” Iona asked quietly, looking confused. “It’s not an insult, is it?”

“No.” Sten closed his eyes. It had slipped out in a moment of panic, and yet he felt strangely ashamed. “It is a word for a close comrade. Someone you work with and respect greatly.” _A half-truth. It is not a lie_. To say more in an open place, easily overheard by prying ears, would shame them both, and he still feared the answer she would give him.

“Oh.” He heard the disappointment in her voice, yet when he quickly opened his eyes, Iona was smiling back at him. “I suppose that means you won’t question me so much anymore.” Her laugh was slightly hollow as she slowly got up off him, yet her forced grin was as wide and seemingly cheerful as ever.

“I would never disrespect your authority, Iona.” He eased himself off the ground, smoothing grass and dirt off his armour.

“No. I know you wouldn’t.” There was sadness in her tone as she avoided his gaze. He felt as if she was expecting him to say something, yet his tongue remained stubbornly trapped, unable to speak for fear of what he might blurt out to her.

“Let’s go and see how the others are doing. We shouldn’t tire ourselves out too quickly, after all. Maybe we should take a break now?” She began walking towards the two, still without looking at him.

Sten felt as if snakes were coiling themselves deep in his belly, squeezing and crushing his insides. He felt a mixture of regret and guilt swirling inside him, along with a stab of fear, yet he could not say why.

He simply shook his head, burying the strange feelings even deeper, and followed her lead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Vashedan** \- Crap (literally "refuse" or "trash.")


End file.
